by Glen Cook
Then Shagot found himself with his back to a wall. The best of three attackers was directly in front of him. Another unwounded man came at him from his right while an injured but capable fighter occupied him on his left, trying to get past the scowling demon's head. All three were wary, cautious, professionals. Shagot would have been calling for the Choosers of the Slain had he not seen his brother behind his attackers.
It was not easy, even so. Shagot suffered several wounds, including one that would have been permanently crippling had he not been touched by the gods.
Svavar fared worse. The Old Ones had placed less of a blessing on him. He suffered slash wounds to both arms and stab wounds to his stomach and chest. They were serious but needed not be fatal if handled quickly.
Shagot performed some hasty first aid, collected the dead — making sure everyone but his brother belonged to that select category — in a heap out of sight of passersby, then settled next to Svavar, shoulder to shoulder, so that his own Great Sky Fortress blessing would rub off.
Shagot the Bastard might be a festering mold on human dung but he did love his little brother.
Shagot soon felt sleep trying to take control. He could not let that happen. He had hours of must-do ahead of him, still.
"Little brother. Can you get up and stumble home now?"
Svavar grunted. He could do that. For Shagot's sake. Thanks to Shagot. But he could not do much more, if Shagot wanted something else.
"Good. So do that, then."
Svavar murmured, "We moved our stuff to the backup place."
"That's right! I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open and my brain working. Go there and lay low. I'll wrap this shit up.”
"Grim…"
"Go on. Can you carry something? Can you take this totem stuff for me?"
"What're you going to do?"
"I'm going to go have a friendly chat with that asshole priest. And make sure we get paid. Take this stuff and get moving." Shagot hugged his brother before the younger man trudged away, carrying a thirty-pound load and a hundredweight of pain, picking his way through an unfamiliar city in the dark, his destination a flat he had visited only once before.
The bronze sword was the only item of power that Shagot retained. It still cut dead flesh like slicing softened butter. He completed his first task in three minutes. Then he set about systematically relieving the dead of any coins they had been carrying when misfortune overtook them.
The Brothers were not rich men but amongst them they did carry as broad a variety of coin as could be imagined. Shagot failed to recognize the origins of most.
No matter. Merchants would know them. And would weigh them, too. They trusted no one. And trusted those with big names and big reputations least of all.
Plundering done, Shagot slung his sack of heads over one shoulder, then retraced his route to the Madhur Plaza.
The sack was actually a shirt taken off the largest of the dead Brothers.
Shagot's wounds ached terribly. He worried about Asgrimmur, hoped the gods had sense enough to protect his brother. His mission was doomed without Asgrimmur's help.
He returned to the Madhur Plaza. The massacre in the square had been discovered. The bodies had been plundered. Now the righteous folk, with torches and lanterns, were out tut-tutting and recalling the good old days when there was order in Brothe and things like this just did not happen where the right sort of people had to look at it.
Such was human nature.
Shagot headed for the Bruglioni citadel. He might be able to get there before the bad news arrived.
The appointed tradesman's gate was ajar and unguarded. Shagot moved through the Bruglioni back court to Father Obilade's quarters. The priest's door opened instantly. Sylvie Obilade and another man waited behind it. An unfamiliar voice demanded, “What the hell took you so…?” The speaker realized Shagot was alone. And that Shagot was Shagot. He gawked. Father Obilade gawked. The first man dropped a hand to the hilt of a dueling sword but did not draw. Shagot offered him a warning shake of the head.
“You owe me some money, old man.” Shagot produced the head of Rodrigo Cologni.
“Sweet Aaron! Blessed Kelam!” Father Obilade made signs meant to ward off the evil eye and the Instrumentalities of the Night. “Did you have to…?”
“You wouldn't just take my word, would you? You're Brothen. Easy there fellow.” The other man, pale as death now, had begun to ease away. “Stand still. I'm not happy tonight.”
Shagot dumped his sack.
Both witnesses swore. They looked at one another in horror. The man with the sword gasped, “That's Strauther Arnot! And Junger Trilling! They're two of the top men from Castella. What have you done? You killed eight of them?” There were eight heads in addition to Rodrigo Cologni.
“My brother helped.”
“Eight of them. Brotherhood veterans. Just the two of you. What have I conjured?”
Shagot thought this might be Paludan Bruglioni. He said, “We had to kill them. They were taking off with the target.”
“What have you done?” the priest whimpered, to himself rather than Shagot.
Shagot sneered. “You've been asking yourselves a question ever since you realized it was me. You may not like the answer. Let's get comfortable and wait. You. Give me that pigsticker. You don't want to do something stupid and get yourself killed. You the Boss Bruglioni? Not gonna say? It don't matter. Let's you and this smelly old woman go sit by that fig tree. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
Shagot drew the ancient sword. It seemed to radiate darkness. With that in hand, Shagot felt renewed. He would not fall asleep while the sword was drawn. He would feel no pain. With that blade in hand he felt as though he could slice through time itself.
The man who might be Paludan Bruglioni considered the old sword with contempt. But Father Obilade's eyes went wide. He whimpered, then commenced a swiftly cadenced, stammering appeal to his god for shelter from the malice of the Instrumentalities of the Night.
It took longer than Shagot expected for news from the Madhur Plaza to arrive. It was almost dawn. Evil, seductive sleep was doing its best to overwhelm the old sword's magic.
Sleep's insidious appeal ended when a small, lean, slightly shaggy man burst in, gasping, "There you are, Paludan! Terrible news! Terrible news! Acato, Gildeo, Faluda, Pygnus, the others … they're all gone! Lost! In the Madhur Plaza! Murdered! Along with all of Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards."
The messenger was so excited that he continued to throw up words until, while straining for breath, he noticed Shagot and the heads. "Shit!"
"Indeed," Shagot said. He felt like a god. They were almost trivial, these southerners. "Slide over there with the others."
The newcomer considered the heads. "Oh, Blessed Kelam and the Fathers of the Church! That's Strauther Arnot! Secretary of the Special Office. What's going on, Paludan?"
Shagot surmised that this must be the deadly clever Gervase Saluda, Paludan Bruglioni's good friend from his youth, from a time when Paludan had slipped away at night to run with a gang of orphans and runaways. That legend was, likely, pure artifice. But Gervase's reputation might be deserved.
Shagot suggested, "Keep your hands where I can see them. Unless you think that set of heads is one short and yours would complete it."
"He's soultaken," Father Obilade whined. "Don't defy him. He can't be defeated. That old sword… It was forged back when the tyranny of the night ruled the world complete."
"Thank you," Shagot told him. "What the crone says is true. And this is true, too. The men you sent to murder my brother and me failed. They murdered Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards instead. These eight showed up while they were at it. They killed everybody but Cologni. They took him away with them. My brother and I pursued them. We had a contract with the Bruglioni. They refused to cooperate. So we took their heads, thinking we might earn a bonus by fulfilling the Bruglioni revenge for you." Shagot used a toe to propel a head toward Paludan Bruglioni. It rolled over on its no
se and changed course toward Gervase Saluda.
"What have you done?" Paludan's plea was feeble and rhetorical.
"What demon rules your soul?" Father Obilade asked. "What ancient horror have you hauled into the modern age, into the heartland of the Episcopal faith?"
Shagot said, "You owe me two hundred gold ducats. Plus a bonus for avenging your dead."
Paludan Bruglioni surrendered to the will of the night "Obilade. Get the money the man wants. Don't get into any mischief along the way. You understand me?"
The priest bowed. "Yes, sir."
Shagot understood, too. "Excellent. And hurry. Because if that money doesn't get here fast, with no treachery, people will die."
Once Father Obilade was gone, Shagot kicked another head and said, "These Brotherhood people knew exactly what was supposed to happen in the Madhur Plaza. How could that be?"
"What have you done?" Paludan whined again.
I have shaken Brothe's foundation stones, Shagot thought.
Never in all his life had he had so much impact upon others. Not even at the height of the sturlanger raids on the coasts of the Isle of Eights had so many people who had no idea who he was suffered so much because of his actions.
"I'm just trying to make a living," Shagot replied. "I don't think that requires me to be sacrificed to some local half-wit's ambition."
Father Obilade returned. He brought more than three hundred ducats in gold coins bearing the likenesses of dead Patriarchs. Shagot checked a few to make sure they were real. "Good. Good. I hope you gentlemen don't resent the lesson in fair play." He crooked a finger at the old priest. "Closer, Father. Closer."
When the old man was close enough, Shagot leaned in to whisper, "These guys know what really happened, Padre. You'd better hike up your skirt and run." In a voice that carried, he continued, "Thanks, everyone. Try not to be such a bunch of weasels, eh?"
Shagot got out of there before sleep could hammer him down.
Touched by the favor of the night, he managed to rejoin his brother before he collapsed.
Once sleep came, though, it would not withdraw until Svavar neared a state of panic. Could his brother possibly survive?
20. Khaurene, in the End of Connec
Winter in the Connec was a season of worry. For those who tried to come to grips with what Arnhanders called the Black Mountain Massacre. Because the invaders insisted that that disaster was in no way their fault.
Well-meaning pilgrims had entered the Connec to help harried Episcopal coreligionists protect themselves from the predations of heretics who roasted babies and sacrificed virgins. Unless that went the other way around.
"That about sum up your position?" Count Raymone Garete flung at the obnoxious, insulting deformed hunchback of an envoy from Salpeno, Father Austen Rinpochй. "You couldn't invent something more ridiculous? You could've accused us of having sexual congress with goats. Fool. Our intransigent apostasy and heresy is why there's an active Episcopal church on every other corner in Khaurene. It's why there are more real cathedrals in the End of Connec than there are in all of your piss-drinking Pail of Arnhand. We built those cathedrals, of course, so we'd have somewhere to snuggle with our goats."
Duke Tormond tried to restrain the young noble. But Count Raymone was beyond restraint. Following his triumph over Baron Algres, Raymone's voice would be loud in the councils of the Connec. "You're speechless? A priest? Talk to me, priest. Name one Episcopal in the End of Connec who has suffered at the hands of the Seekers After Light"
Gleefully, Father Rinpoche retorted, "Bishop Serifs of Antieux."
Silence.
More silence.
Someone said, "Sweet Aaron on a jackass, the fool is serious."
Count Raymone sneered, "The priest isn't a fool. He's a league beyond. He's a complete idiot."
Even the Great Vacillator, Duke Tormond, stared at Father Rinpochй like he thought the man was a half-wit reveling in his debility. "Are you serious, Father? That man was a thief. He abused his office. He was indifferent to the rights of others. He was a perjurer, a pederast, and a sodomite. There's no end to the catalog of his crimes. Absent the protection of Sublime he would've been hung years ago. I did feel some sympathy for your mission until now. But we all know rats who deserve higher honors than Bishop Serifs."
Count Raymone snapped, "Serifs was such a waste that Principatй Bronte Doneto — the Patriarch's own cousin — had him thrown off a cliff after they failed to rob and morder the people of Antieux."
Father Rinpochй clung to his position.
Duke Tormond stood. He clasped his hands but let his arms hang. "I'm a good Episcopal, Father. I attend church every day. I never miss confession. I sent a letter to the Holy Father asking what more can possibly be expected. He hasn't replied. Meantime, we're here and, yet again, we're being subjected to unfounded and trumped-up charges by men whose interest in God's work is secondary to their hopes of plundering the Connec. Hear me, Rinpochй. In this hall, with you, is almost every man of substance in Khaurene. I challenge you to go among them and find one unbeliever."
Not the wisest challenge, in Brother Candle's view. He was there. And not alone in his inability to recognize the infallibility of Sublime V.
The Arnhander priest did not take the challenge. He refused to speak to it, or even to acknowledge it.
Rinpochй could only return to Salpeno and report that the Connec remained recalcitrant, intransigent, and that those agents of the Adversary, the Maysaleans, had gained hidden mastery. The sole practical answer appeared to be the one the Patriarch was pushing privately, a crusade to extinguish the Maysalean Heresy.
The powerful in Salpeno had no trouble accepting Father Rinpochй's arguments. Most hungered for revenge, for plunder, and had little interest in any truth that got in their way. They had, as well, a feeble king unable to execute his royal duties while remaining equally incompetent at dying. Though his death would avail nothing. There was no crown prince.
That looked sweet to a spectrum of ambitious dukes, barons, and relations legitimate and otherwise.
It held an equally powerful appeal to the lords and knights of Santerin's continental possessions, along their frontiers with Arnhand.
There were skirmishes and incursions almost every day, from down south where Tramaine bumped against the Connec all the way to the northernmost villages on the seacoast east of easternmost Argony. Local knights and garrisons did little to make life difficult for the aggressors. Members of the same families lived on both sides of the shifting border. Feudal obligations in the marches changed with every marriage, birth, death, and with the altering fortunes of war.
And a change of rulers made little difference in the lives of local people. Some peasants did not speak the language of either set of masters.
Every Arnhander family of substance had relatives overseas, in the crusader states. They sent their young men east to temper them in the ruthless struggle for control of the Holy Lands.
The young men took servants and foot soldiers and treasure with them.
Usually only the young men themselves returned — no longer young.
With so many strains upon it, it was insanity for Arnhand to listen to Sublime's mad call for help punishing the Chaldareans of the Connec for their recalcitrance and the Connecten Seekers After Light for disrespecting God Himself.
Anne of Menand, mistress of Arnhand's king, had two children by her lover. The eldest was a son, Regard. Regard was just fourteen but of sound mind and body and had a regal air. In normal times no one would consider him a candidate to replace his father. Legitimacy was a huge issue for the Arnhander nobility. But these were abnormal times. Dedicated schemers could get the past restructured to render Regard legitimate.
Anne had presented her favors to a select few outside the royal bedchamber as well, creating a circle of accomplices. The boy's father was amenable to her strident efforts to have Regard designated Crown Prince. But powerful factions were arrayed behind rival candidates.
Anne of Menand was a schemer and manipulator and slut. She bedded men not only to manipulate them but because she was possessed by a huge enthusiasm for night sports. Yet she was a devout Chaldarean with a sincere belief in Patriarchal infallibility. If Sublime asked for troops to punish the apostate Connec, then Arnhand should produce those troops.
It was a measure of Anne's standing that she managed to engineer a crusade of eighty knights and their entourages. The little army never reached the Connec, though. It turned back before the levees completed their obligations. Not once did it engage — or even sight — a heretic. But it did lose three dozen souls to disease and accident.
Brother Candle traveled the Connec,bringing heart to Seekers After Light who sensed a gathering storm. He visited the nobles of each town. They had to understand that they were obliged to protect everyone from foreign enemies. He reminded them that the jongleurs and poets called the Connec the Peaceful Kingdom. Connectens took pride in their ability to live in harmony.
It was a time of moral posturing. It was a time of absurd justifications, before the fact, of anticipated bad behaviors.
Sublime V issued frequent thunderous bulls denouncing all things Maysalean and most things traditionally Connecten. He seemed driven to alienate his flock.
The people of the Connec began to rally behind Immaculate II, who found sufficient fire to spew a few bulls of his own. Pro-Brothen priests, who had been unpopular before now, faced active hostility.
The sleepy Connec had begun to awaken. And was getting up cranky.
Brother Candle feared Sublime's shortsighted greed would waken the whirlwind. He did not enjoy the increasingly bellicose nationalism churning through the Connec. It grew fat on the fear of bigger and fiercer armies coming to torment the Connec.
Wherever Brother Candle carried his message he saw city walls being heightened and strengthened. He saw castles being readied for siege. He saw local militias receiving instruction in the use of arms from men who were respected because they were veterans of the wars to liberate the Holy Lands. And everywhere he went he found that Tormond's men had preceded him, asking people not to prepare for war. Brothe and Arnhand might find that provocative.
