The Tyranny of the Night iotn-1

by Glen Cook

  The battle did not take place near the Well of Remembrance. The westerners named it for the Well because both sides were hurrying to grab it before the other could get there. An unplanned encounter battle took place on the eastern edge of the Plain of Judgement. Thanks to the insanely fanatic Ishoti the situation devolved into chaos. Each side brought more and more swords up to support those already engaged. The epic slaughter swept back and forth until the mercurial Ishoti suddenly lost their taste for blood and ran away.

  The battle, by whatever name, was the bloodiest of the long contest for control of the Holy Lands. And the least decisive. It changed nothing.

  A year later the Sha-lug and crusaders joined forces to evict the Lucidians from those few territories they had captured after the Battle of the Four Armies.

  In the Holy Lands alliances were as fluid as imagination, treachery, and shortsightedness could write them.

  Pinkus Ghort said, "Pipe's folks were still pagan when that cluster fuck went down."

  A majordomo type materialized. "His Imperial Majesty will see you now." He bowed slightly to the Principatй.

  "Show time." Ghort began to adjust his clothing. He and Else followed the Principatй, two steps behind, flanked out to either side.

  The audience hall was unimpressive. It was a room fifteen feet by twenty-something. The only furniture was one heavy wooden chair. That was occupied by a dark, ugly little man. He was dressed as though he planned to ride to the hunt once he got this unpleasant chore out of the way. This was Hansel, Johannes Blackboots, the Grail Emperor, Elector of Kretien, and terror of Sublime V's cohorts.

  The Emperor wore black boots. Of course.

  Else pegged him immediately as a man determined to live up to the reputation awarded him by rumor. He liked being the Ferocious Little Hans.

  At least twenty people crowded the room, mostly men with shields and spears. They lined the walls. A handful of unarmed people surrounded the Emperor. Three of those appeared to be Johannes's children. Two were attractive young women. The third was a thin, pallid boy. The men posed nearest Johannes would be his closest advisers.

  Those deserved close study. Particularly the one who was not Ferris Renfrow. But Else could not concentrate. His attention had been arrested by the woman who must be the Emperor's younger daughter, Helspeth.

  Strangely, the impact seemed mutual and electric.

  Else forced himself to focus. Critical things could happen. A prince of the Church was engaged with the most powerful lord in the west. The future might be shaped here. That ugly little man, Johannes Ege, troubled men as self-confident as Sublime V. Else's next few years would find him — he hoped — intimately involved in the affairs of the Church and all these men.

  His attention stole back to Helspeth.

  Helspeth was young enough to get away with considering him frankly.

  Helspeth Ege was taller than her father by a hand. She was thin by prevailing standards, in Firaldia and Dreanger both. The most desirable women were expected to be more substantial, more rounded. Helspeth was too slight even by the standards of her own people. In the Grail Empire, particularly in the north, women were supposed to have hips and muscles, possibly so they could give birth while pulling a plow.

  Helspeth's features suggested exotic ancestry. Her eyes were large and dark. Her hair was almost an oriental black. It fell straight, in a single heavy braid that hung down past her waist. Her mouth was wide and her lips prominent, almost puffy. Her nose, though, was small and pointed. She looked like she might have freckles. The light was not good enough to say for sure, nor to reveal the exact color of her eyes.

  Except for the ugly, she seemed very much her father's daughter. Which meant that her older sister Katrin must take after her mother.

  Other than being tall and slim, the sisters shared little in appearance. Katrin's hair was blond almost to the point of being white. Her eyes were small, narrow, and appeared to be an icy blue. That hinted at a mean streak. Her mouth was a severe slash, almost lipless and definitely colorless. At a glance, Else guessed that Katrin Ege did not like the world very much and suspected that on close acquaintance that feeling might be reflected right back. Katrin's clothing suggested an austere, inflexible personality. It was of a quality consistent with her station but plain, White, and a very pale, washed-out, misty sort of bluish-green. She could pass as one of the more exotic strains of Episcopal nuns.

  Katrin's gaze swept across Else once, like a moving beam of winter. Then it went away. And stayed away.

  Not so Helspeth's interest. Helspeth kept trying to concentrate on her father but her gaze refused to shun Else for long.

  He noted, further, that the younger sister was more blessed with breasts. Seemed to be, anyway. Imperial style did not contrive to flatter women in that arena.

  Else could not work out why the girl had such an impact. And she was, really, just a girl. And he was a married man with familial obligations.

  And Helspeth Ege was the daughter of an emperor.

  The atmosphere in this realm of Unbelievers must have stricken him with a brain fever. He had no business even noticing the woman except as an accoutrement of the Grail Emperor's court.

  Bronte Doneto's interview with Emperor Johannes went as those things could be expected to. Platitudes were exchanged. Not one forthright word was spoken.

  Doneto nearly lost control when he learned that the Patriarch had not yet committed to his ransom. "Sublime agrees in principal," Johannes said. "But he just doesn't want to turn loose any money. If he does, his effort to force the Connec to bend the knee will be crippled. Which is the point of the exercise from where I sit."

  Hansel ended the diplomatic hot air just that simply. He continued, "I had you brought up from the underworld because my agents tell me Sublime is ready to face reality. That he's pulling the ransom together. Which isn't going as well as he hoped. Most Devedian moneylenders won't do business with a man who says he wants to exterminate them. Odd. Plus, a lot of people in Brothe aren't eager to have you back."

  Else concentrated. Personalities and conflicts were of paramount interest. If Collegium members could be bribed, say, it might be possible to avoid war altogether.

  The Sha-lug sang the glories of war and worked hard at preparing themselves for it, but, because they knew it intimately, they were not at all averse to pursuing alternatives.

  Bronte Doneto said, "Any man who achieves any stature through his own efforts accumulates enemies. Envy is the most common human failing. You must be familiar with this yourself."

  "Indeed I am. You could say that the envy of the Church is at the root of my conflict with the Patriarch."

  The Grail Emperor was having fun. He had Sublime V by the short hairs. "So I'm bringing you upstairs, as my guest, until those who love you buy your vote back."

  Doneto held his tongue. With obvious difficulty.

  Else studied Johannes and his advisers. The Emperor was more than just short and ugly. His frame was twisted slightly. He had a small hump. It was easy to see why someone might not take him seriously. Possibly the other Imperial Electors had counted on his deformities to get him out of the way sooner than later.

  Hansel's features were more pronouncedly oriental that Helspeth's. One of the invading tribes that pulled the Old Empire down must have camped near the Ege family tree.

  Johannes had made himself the most powerful Grail Emperor yet. If an equally powerful personality had not resided in Brothe, the Empire might have engulfed the hundred states of Firaldia. The Patriarchy might have become an extension of the Grail Emperor's power.

  Interesting times. Two mighty men. Both wanted to be lord of the world, king of kings. Excellent for the sons of al-Prama — until one subdued the other. While they fought, men like Indala al-Sul Halaladin and Gordimer the Lion might purge the Holy Lands of crusader states.

  Which would fire the contest between the kaifates of Qasr al-Zed and al-Minphet. And waken the inscrutable ambitions of the Rh?n emperors
. And, at a remove, there was Tsistimed the Golden and the Hu'n-tai At, the doom now breaking against the far borders of the Ghargarlicean Empire.

  The man with Johannes who was not Ferris Renfrow was unfamiliar. Else studied him. The man might have been decoration for all the interest he showed.

  Helspeth was eyeballing him again, her interest so frank that Else suspected Ferris Renfrow had rehearsed her as a distraction.

  Pinkus Ghort's sudden touch startled Else. "Wake up! we're leaving."

  What? Had he become that distracted? Apparently so. And the Principatй was not pleased.

  Bronte Doneto moved to an apartment on the fourth floor of the Dimmel Palace. His imprisonment was no less real, however. He was given three servants, all of whom could be trusted to report to Ferris Renfrow. He was allowed to keep Pinkus Ghort and Else as bodyguards, though they remained unarmed. They could not leave the apartment except for religious services in a small secondary chapel. Where they saw only the same people they had seen every day since the ambush.

  Of those who came to Plemenza with Doneto, nine took service with the Grail Emperor. Two succumbed to ill health. So, besides Ghort, Else, Bo, and Joe, only three men chose to stick with the Principatй. Two were the last survivors of Doneto's original lifeguard. The other, Gitto Boratto, a Vangelin, was obviously a spy.

  The Patriarch continued to procrastinate. His reluctance to pay had no limit. Crucial tasks of the Church remained untended because of deadlocks in the Collegium.

  "Wake up, Pipe!" Ghort shouted one morning, long before Else's shift with the Principatй. "We're moving out. The ransom money finally showed up."

  "Really?"

  "Really. Himself says so."

  And well past time. It was spring outside. Else grumbled, "At least we got through the winter without freezing."

  Ghort chuckled. He knew perfectly well that Else was sick of Bronte Doneto and even more sick of Pinkus Ghort.

  Ghort prophesied, "You may not have to strangle me after all.”

  Else suspected that, for all he complained about everyone he ever met, Pinkus Ghort had no nerves to be rubbed raw by interminable proximity.

  "Maybe. But don't push your luck. What happened? Why the sudden turnaround?"

  "Pirates."

  "What? You want me to brain you? What's with the cryptic answer?"

  "I mean it. Pirates from Calzir are all over the place, suddenly. Raiding both coasts. I'm sure there's a story. But all I've heard is, the raiders are picking on the Church and the Benedocto family holdings."

  Piracy was an old-time favorite sport of Calzir's Pramans. At times buccaneering offered better prospects than any more mundane career. At least until the appearance of the Firaldian mercantile republics. Those ferocious capitalists were less forgiving than feeble counts and dukes and kings. The men they sent to scour out the pirates' home villages and harbors were deadly, cruel, and thorough.

  Else said as much. "They couldn't be that stupid. Could they?"

  "Why ask me? All I know is, we're getting out of here. You want to argue about it, take it up with the Principatй. Or the Patriarch next time you see him. Or those lunatic Calzirans."

  "All right. All right. I'm just amazed at humanity's boundless capacity for making stupid choices." How could the Calzirans have grown so contemptuous of reality? Sublime was looking for excuses to preach a crusade. Did they believe that Sonsa, Dateon, and Aparion would look away? Hell. Maybe they did. The Devedian uprisings, fomented by the Brotherhood of War and Patriarchal agitators, might have made the republics withdraw protection from areas not their direct dependents.

  Else asked, "Do you know where the raids were? Only Patriarchal States got hit?"

  Ghort shrugged. "They didn't call me into any councils, Pipe. They told me to wake your ass up and get ready to hike. And hike for real, because we ain't getting our horses back. So, if you don't mind, get shaking. I'll get Pig Iron and the boys stirring."

  They made a pathetic little band leaving Plemenza. The anonymous Braunsknechts captain watched from the gateway, as though to make sure they really went away.

  There were seven of them. The Principatй, Else, and Ghort. Bo Biogna and Just Plain Joe. Plus Bergos Delmareal and Gadjeu Tifft. The spy who had intended to stick with Doneto, Gitto Boratto, was too sick to travel. Which was a genuine coincidence. Boratto came down with the runs the afternoon before the ransom arrived. Bo thought Boratto's troubles were due to a rich diet that was his reward for spying.

  So Delmareal and Tifft were reliable. Delmareal was an exile from one of the smaller Chaldarean kingdoms in Direcia, absorbed by Navaya shortly after Peter became king. Delmareal had no inclination to go home.

  Gadjeu Tifft hailed from Croizat, a tiny state on the Creveldian coast across the narrow Vieran Sea, east of Firaldia. The details of his story were protean. Men did stupid, impulsive things when they were young.

  Tifft did not seem bright enough to be an agent of the Rh?n, though Croizat and all of Creveldia belonged to the Eastern Empire.

  No matter. The shores of the Mother Sea crawled with displaced men who, often in some way that they did not comprehend, found themselves far from anyone or anything they knew. They survived by signing on with some warlord.

  The Bronte Donetos were always there.

  Doneto was in good health now and eager to get home. He pushed as hard as Pig Iron allowed. And Pig Iron was in a mood to put Plemenza behind him.

  Pinkus Ghort started grumbling before the first day was halfway done. "Good thing we spent so much time staying in shape, eh? That's paying dividends now." Else was one of few prisoners who had made an effort to stay fit. Ghort was not.

  Even the Principatй had to walk. Possibly, Hansel thought, that might inspire him to rein in his natural arrogance.

  Only a brace of ancient donkeys had been given the privilege of becoming Pig Iron's associates in the transport department.

  Doneto wanted to plot against the future. He told Else, "As soon as we get to Brothe, before anybody even sees you, I'm going to set you up with Draco Arniena. He'll take you on because, although he opposes Sublime publicly, in secret he's our ally."

  Doneto bubbled with eagerness to plunge into Brother's ferocious political dialogue.

  19. Andorayans in Brothe

  Shagot and Svavar survived by theft and violence while they learned enough Firaldian to get by. Then they worked their way up the ranks of strong-arm men. They started as bouncers in one of Brothe's more riotous waterfront dives, then became wholesale butchers on behalf of an association of shopkeepers grown weary of paying protection to gangs who did not protect them from other gangs demanding protection money.

  They had a miraculous knack for surviving. Their coldbloodedness intimidated the most hardened Brothen criminals. It took just months to convince a superstitious underworld that they could not be touched but would happily obliterate anyone who even thought about getting in their way.

  Shagot learned that producing the monster head while using weapons from the old battlefield in the White Hills left him and Svavar invulnerable. He did not understand why. He did not care. It was sufficient that he was doing the work of the gods.

  The brothers had no trouble being coldly murderous because they were so far out of their own time that they did not see people of the present as entirely human.

  This was like butchering chickens. When Shagot could stay awake. Shagot slept up to sixteen hours a day.

  Their work came to the attention of Father Syvlie Obilade, who had a special place in the household of the Bruglioni family. The Bruglioni were one of the Five Families of Brothe. They were long-time enemies of the Benedocto. Father Obilade told the brothers they would enjoy an easier, more profitable life if they put their talents on retainer to the Bruglioni.

  Shagot had nothing but contempt for Father Obilade. "They're all oil and slime, these Chaldarean priests," he told Svavar. "I'd love to see them delivered to the mercies of the Old Ones. Especially these shit-for-brains
Brothen priests. All they're interested in is getting hold of power. Their screams would be sweet music."

  Svavar did not reply. He seldom spoke anymore. He did what Shagot required of him, however bloody, insane, or cruel, while abiding his release from his obligations to his gods.

  The biggest handicap endured by the brothers was Shagot's sleep compulsion. That worsened almost daily.

  Sylvie Obilade was not a blood member of the Bruglioni. He was a boyhood friend of Soneral Bruglioni, who would be the Bruglioni chieftain today if he had not somehow managed to swallow a fatal dose of poison during the maneuvering prior to the election of Honario Benedocto. The priest's apparent loyalty now lay with Soneral's brother, Paludan.

  Paludan Bruglioni overflowed with rage and hatred. Paludan Bruglioni's whole being revolved around those. All Brothe believed Father Obilade did nothing to soften Paludan's dark obsessions. Indeed, perhaps, he nurtured Paludan's abhorrence of those who favored the Benedocto Patriarchy.

  Sylvie Obilade tried to be a good priest. But he had wrestled with his own faith for years.

  Shagot and Svavar entered Father Obilade's small, dank room. The stench of mold and mildew beset them. Discarded clothing lay in the corners, damp and decaying, gifts never worn.

  The priest never changed his filthy, tattered smock, His personal odors were powerful, too. "Thank you for coming." His voice was raspy, damaged permanently by the mold in the air.

  Shagot exchanged glances with his brother. This ragged old skeleton was one of the more powerful men in Brothe. Which was why Shagot had listened when the priest recruited him.

  The view is always better from a high place. From a high enough vantage Shagot thought he could see all the way to the man he was supposed to find.

  Father Obilade teetered on the brink of his fiftieth year but a lifetime of self-abuse had him looking seventy. He ate only unleavened bread and drank nothing but water. On holy days he rewarded himself by fasting.