by Glen Cook
The glories of yesterday lay in ruins, some looted for building stone, overgrown, haunted by the poor and fugitives or, some said, by a thousand lingering recollections of the Instrumentalities of the Night. There were great sorcerers in Brothe everybody knew. And not just the tame Principatйs of the Collegium.
Foreigners came seeking their fortunes. Many of them had been villains in their own climes. And Brothe boasted a vigorous religion and pilgrim industry. Else found that amazing. Thousands came every month just to see the Church's central physical institutions, and in hopes of glimpsing the Patriarch.
During his stay with the Arniena, Else participated in two minor adventures with Rogoz Sayag and other family retainers. Salny Sayag said the orders came from Don Inigo Arniena himself. Don Inigo was the family chieftain. Neither mission amounted to much. Punishing a servant who had stolen from the Arniena. Avenging an insult flung at one of the don's granddaughters by a gang of street kids who had been stupid enough to open their mouths outside their hideout.
Those jobs did give Else a chance to be seen in the company of other Arniena goons.
“This all you do?" Else asked Rogoz.
"Don Inigo isn't big on squabbling. Unlike everyone else in Brothe."
"Uhm?”
"It seems the more chaotic things get, the more some people use that to cover their own mischief. Which only makes the chaos worse. The don would rather do it the sneaky, sinister way."
Else went along and showed he could be part of the team. He needed only be mildly evasive about his past. Rogoz Sayag was not eager to reveal his own background. Possibly Rogoz had not spent much time in the countries where he was supposed to have learned his trade. In lands where he might have crossed paths with a freelancer from Duarnenia, that little state on the eastern shore of the Shallow Sea.
Few mercenaries talked about their pasts. Somewhere behind them, in most cases, were people with grudges. Bad choices made at an early age were why freelancers left home in the first place.
While public order in Brothe deteriorated, the broader, world situation lent the Patriarch no comfort, either. Calziran pirates grew more numerous and bolder by the day. A sort of mob madness had taken possession of them. Their worst raids fell on Church or Benedocto family holdings, always within the bounds of the Episcopal States. There was hardly a rumor of piracy along the coasts of Alameddine. That kingdom, beholden to the Grail Empire, lay between Calzir and the Episcopal States. Nor did raiders appear anywhere else protected by the Grail Emperor or the mercantile republics.
Even dimwits who cared little about distant events began to think there was a conspiracy. Johannes Blackboots must be behind it all.
In Brothe everything was part of a plot. In Brothe nothing was what it seemed, or even what it purported to be. Whatever went wrong did so because of an inimical conspiracy.
Else suspected that any plot involving Praman pirates would be orchestrated from al-Qarn rather than the Grail Empire.
Anything that distracted Sublime from a crusade into me Holy Lands would be a good thing, from the Dreangerean point of view. Any delay moved the man that many weeks, months, or years closer to his blessed elevation into the Chaldarean heaven. Whereupon the beleaguered and long-suffering Collegium would, undoubtedly, replace him with someone less controversial, bellicose, and ambitious.
On Else's ninth day with the Arniena, Rogoz Sayag appeared as he was teaching three Arniena boys exercises that would improve their stamina against the day they got involved in a duel. "Remember. When two fighters of equal skill meet, the one whose strength lasts longest will be the survivor." He used "survivor" rather man "victor" deliberately.
"Good lesson for them to learn, Hecht." Sayag got it.
"When they're young they think only the other guy is mortal. These boys listen, though. That's good."
Rogoz said, "You've done this before. They do pay attention."
"They're good kids. The main thing I want to get through to them is that half the people who get into duels lose."
"Definitely a difficult lesson. My father wants you. The Don has arranged a meeting with Paludan Bruglioni."
Else grunted. "Soon?"
“Tonight, I think. Not thrilled?"
"Not only am I old enough to know that half the people who get into duels lose, I'm old enough to know that, no matter how good you are, there's always somebody better." Else told the Arniena boys to knock off for the day.
"I'm not sure I follow all of that but I'll take your word for it."
Salny Sayag suggested, "Take a chair, Hecht." Else no longer found that western affectation awkward. The old man said, "I've talked you up to Paludan Bruglioni. He'll put on a show of reluctance but he's eager to take on someone like you. Which should work out well for you. All you have to do is look like you're what he wants you to be."
Else grunted, then said, "There's been a couple things bothering me. One is, why would a family the size of the Bruglioni need to bring in outside help? They lost a couple of important sons but I can't see that weakening them to the point where…"
"But it did. You're correct. There're a lot of Bruglionis. And every Bruglioni gets away from Brothe as soon as he can. Paludan is a difficult man. He's consumed by hatred. He keeps it hidden most of the time, though. His brother, and their father, were also miserable souls."
That sounded like a good emotional handle.
Sayag continued, "Last century there was a fad where the Brothen rich considered themselves too good to soil their own hands with war or commerce. The more hirelings a family had, the higher its status. The Bruglioni took that too much to heart. They never really got over it. After a parade of uninspired chieftains, they've pretty much lost their ability to do anything useful themselves."
"I see." He did not.
"The Bruglioni who died in Madhur Plaza were their best young men. Only their reputation for savagery and brutality protects them now. But the wolves smell weakness. The vultures are circling. Paludan's hired swords have all deserted. The Brotherhood of War has him marked. They're convinced that he was behind the killing of their men the night he lost his sons. A Bruglioni servant says he saw the missing heads inside the Bruglioni citadel the next day. And rumor says Paludan himself tortured Father Obilade to death. Sylvie Obilade being the Bruglioni household priest and Paludan's personal confessor, but also a spy. He arranged the ambush in the plaza. Not expecting a bloodbath."
"I see. Convolution in the Brothen tradition. And Paludan Bruglioni isn't a good employer."
"Correct. Don Inigo and I both cautioned him to restrain himself in your case. First, because he needs you desperately. Second, because we consider you more a loan man a pass along, his to do with as he pleases."
"Really?" Now what? He had met Inigo Arniena only in passing. The Don was a wizened little character vain enough to dye his hair black. Yet he enjoyed a joke, even at his own expense. He was less formal and stuffy than Salny Sayag.
Else could see no reason for Don Inigo to extend special protection to a passing rogue he meant to plant on an enemy as part of a larger scheme.
"The Don asked me to see if you won't make that a literal truth."
"You're going to have to be more direct."
"Long ago, when they were boys, Freido Bruglioni, Paludan's father, disrespected Don Draco Arniena in a way that Paludan doesn't know Don Inigo knows about. Don Inigo also knows the Bruglioni consider it a great joke. I'm not privy to the details myself. I do know that Don Draco swore to avenge the insult Don Inigo promised his father on his deathbed that he would finish it. Last summer, when Don Inigo's heart almost betrayed him, he settled on a scheme where the Arniena vote in the Collegium would undercut the Bruglioni at some critical point. Meantime, publicly, Don Inigo remains Paludan's staunch ally."
"I think I begin to see."
"No doubt already being in a similar position on behalf of the Benedocto."
"Not them. Bronte Doneto."
"Who is an extension of the Patriar
ch, if you ask most people. No matter. The Don doesn't want much from you that you won't do anyway."
"So. This was why it was so easy for Principatй Doneto arrange to slide me in through the Bruglioni back door?"
"Yes."
"What do you want?"
"Any information you can acquire that will give the Don a chance to do the Bruglioni a bigger hurt in the public eye,"
"Bigger?"
"Bigger than backstabbing them in a vote in the Collegium. Best would be to discover something that would make the mob want to tear them apart."
"What a city. Of course. Since my Principatй tells me that you don't expect to reveal yourselves any time soon. Because until Rodrigo Cologni is replaced the Arniena vote isn't crucial."
"The Patriarch will have to move quickly, just to forestall the idea that he might have been behind the murder."
"I thought the murderer was supposed to be a huge blond foreigner. If he wasn't a Bruglioni."
"Either way, somebody killed a whole troop of Brotherhood veterans to get to Rodrigo Cologni. That's a hard sell, Hecht. God Himself wouldn't be interested enough to work that hard."
Else shrugged. "It seems nothing is unlikely here."
"It's just bigger and more complex than what you're used to. I was lost when I first got here. But it's just people being people, only with a lot more enthusiasm. Well, that's settled. Let's get you ready to go."
Else was amused. Here he was, entering the Great Rearing ugly limestone Bruglioni stronghold through the front gate. Rogoz left him there. "You want me to wait, Hecht?"
"Be a waste of your time, wouldn't it? I can find my way home."
“Take care, then. Some of these Bruglioni are creepy people." Sayag did not mind the Bruglioni sentry overhearing.
"You get used to creepy people."
Rogoz sneered and went away.
Else followed the sentry into the Bruglioni citadel. That man turned him over to a nervous, skinny, short, shaggy little man who told him, "My name is Polo. I'm supposed to assist you as long as you're here. You shouldn't ever forget that I work for Paludan Bruglioni. You'll see him in a minute."
Else considered his surroundings. Seedy described it in one quick, all-encapsulating word. No effort was being made to keep the place up. It felt creepy, as though the last fugitive tendrils of the night had not been harried out of this one corner of Brothe.
"Is the Don a sorcerer?"
Polo squeaked in surprise.
"He's not?"
"No. If you mean Paludan. But that isn't it. Nobody calls him the Don. Much as he'd love that"
"Really? Why not?"
Polo looked around for something lurking in the shadows. "You aren't Brothen, are you?"
"Not even Firaldian. Why?"
"Don is a title of respect. Given only to those who earn it. From here," smacking his chest over his heart. “To the one who leads. By those who follow. Do you understand that?"
"Yes." A similar tradition existed among the tribesmen of Peqaa and other remote regions of the Realm of Truth. Polo meant that the Bruglioni household did not consider Paludan Bruglioni a man who deserved to be called Don. "I do. Do I need to make a special effort with my appearance?"
"Nobody would notice. You're just another tradesman. One who uses a sword instead of a trowel or a hammer."
This half-ghostly Polo was nursing a grudge against his employers.
What Else had learned about the Bruglioni while serving the Arniena had not impressed him. But he had not drawn as bleak a picture as Polo and the Bruglioni headquarters suggested.
Was Polo some sort of provocateur?
This was no life a man ought to live, every waking moment spent wrestling paranoia about the motives of everyone around you. Yet paranoia was bedrock beneath this mission. He could not survive without it.
Later, Else said, “Tell me something, Polo. You said Paludan Bruglioni isn't a sorcerer. Is anyone else? I feel the darkness. Like there's an aspect of the Instrumentalities close to us."
"Others have said the same, sir. Possibly because the Bruglioni are so devoutly determined to have nothing to do with dark powers. They try to ignore their existence. Divino Bruglioni had to leave home when he chose the path that led him to become a member of the Collegium. They say they refuse to surrender to the Will of the Night."
The world could be confusing when the only truth available was the certainty that people would lie to you.
"Time to see the man," Polo announced.
Else narrowed his focus. He became Piper Hecht, wanderer from the farthest marches of the Chaldarean world, an experienced soldier eager to find service in one of the great houses of Brothe.
Else made a strong effort to sound honest. “This wasn't my idea. Don Inigo convinced me. He says he owes you, that you've suffered cruel reverses, and he wants to help. Also, he said that I have a better chance of getting ahead with the Bruglioni than with the Arniena." Rogoz Sayag had advised him to appeal to the natural Bruglioni arrogance.
Paludan Bruglioni muttered, "That makes sense."
Paludan Bruglioni was a handsome, darkly complexioned man with a heavy black mustache. He had begun to lose his hair. He was heavy without being fat. His eyes seemed lifeless, though that could be due to the emotional beating he had taken lately. His head was egg-shaped, with the thin end down. His ears lay close. His overall appearance suggested a man in his middle fifties.
Paludan Bruglioni was a decade younger. The lamplight did not betray the floridity caused by prolonged, excessive drinking, or the scars left by the pustules from a disease picked up in Brothe's sporting houses. He had a reputation for vanity and, supposedly, wore a mask when he went out.
By lamplight he was a handsome, wealthy gentleman who was slightly tipsy. He might be in a bad mood for no immediately obvious reason.
"You're saying you want to step into my nephew Saldi's boots as a favor to Inigo Arniena?"
"The Don was good to me. He took me in when my prospects seemed bleak and he couldn't afford to pay what I'm worth. By sending me here he feels he's doing favors for you and me both."
Paludan scowled. Was there any chance that the man was as shallow and dull as he appeared?
Bruglioni glanced at the two men there with him, neither of whom had been introduced. One, though, had to be an uncle or older first cousin. He looked like an older Paludan. The other was pale, had graying ginger hair and a pallid, lantern-jawed death's-head face more ravaged than Paludan's.
Neither man spoke.
Else assumed the death's-head to be Gervase Saluda, Paludan's lifelong friend and reputed right hand.
Else said, "I would've been happy where I was. Don Inigo is the sort of master men in my line dream about. But I had higher ambitions when I left Tusnet. In Duarnenia the future is fixed. Sooner or later, you'll die in the Grand Marshes. Slowly and in great pain if the Sheard get hold of you. The pagans proclaim the tyranny of the night in the daytime. They celebrate their surrender to the will of the night."
Paludan smiled. Death's-head consulted something in front of him. "You were with Grade Drocker and the Brotherhood during the Church's adventure in the Connec last year?"
"Yes. I was on my way to Brothe when I encountered a Brotherhood band recruiting mercenaries near Ralli."
"Where they quarry the marble."
"Yes. A Brotherhood captain named Veld Arnvolker was in charge. I'd accumulated some traveling companions on the road, mostly boys and runaways. They thought they wanted to be soldiers. It would be all romance and adventure. The Brotherhood offered good training, good pay, and what looked like a chance to show them the truth without them having to get killed finding it out. So when the kids wanted to sign on, I went-along."
"And it was all too good to be true."
"Yes. Because fate jumped in right away."
"It'll do that. Especially if things start going good.”
"We got sent to the Connec. Idiot orders from the Patriarch and a brain-dead local bish
op got my kids all killed. Only a few of us got out alive. Mostly Brotherhood guys, of course. You'd figure, wouldn't you? And the bigwigs, naturally.
"That's how life works."
"It does. But it's not right. Anyway, there I was, on my own again. For a whole damned month before I even heard that Grade Drocker, who was supposed to be in charge. You know, I never saw that asshole once. Him and his Brotherhood buddies ran downriver, grabbed a ship and escaped by sea. Leaving the rest of us to look out for ourselves."
The skull-faced man said, "Several survivors of the Connecten adventure were involved the night we lost Gildeo, Acato, Saldi, and me others. Did you know that?"
"No. I don't know much about that. Just rumors. I never knew for sure which Brothers made it back. I don't want anything to do with those people. One exposure was enough."
"Why wouldn't you be interested in the incident? If you wanted to work here?"
"I didn't want to. Not then. And it didn't affect the Arniena until Don Inigo saw the Bruglioni in tough circumstances and decided to show his regard for them."
Paludan asked, "You admit you're a mercenary? That what you're interested in is personal advancement?"
"Sure. Why wouldn't I? The way I'll get ahead is to be dedicated and loyal and do the best job I can. Don Inigo had my complete devotion. The Bruglioni will get it if you hire me. If Don Inigo had released me I might have left Brothe. Vondera Koterba is recruiting in Alameddine. He's offering particularly good terms. But Don Inigo asked me to come here. So here I am. I'll serve you till you release me or send me elsewhere."
What Else said encapsulated the supposed philosophy of the mercenary brotherhood in Firaldia. But it was just talk. Mercenaries and employers alike acknowledged the ideals only when it was convenient.
It was not a time when large, permanent bands, captained by famous professionals, contracted as units. The last notorious company ended with the destruction of Adolf Black's regiment in the Black Mountain Massacre.
