by Glen Cook
“Supposing anyone is telling the truth,” Hecht observed. “I can think of several men who have the nerve, supposing there’s any real point to killing me.” There must be. Attempts had been made regularly.
He watched the other two pray over the wounded man. He pushed Pella back out into the darkness.
“Take care of Vali. You don’t want these men to know you’re with us, anyway. They’re not nice people.”
The fight had gone out of the three, though. Ghort asked, “What now, Pipe? I didn’t expect no priests from Viscesment.”
“Nor did I.” Where to? Race the news from the Connec to Brothe with no hope of beating it?
“We didn’t give this enough thought before we hared off on an adventure.”
A young man’s game,” Ghort philosophized. “A game for men who don’t got nothing to lose.”
“Yes. Gentlemen. Priests. This is an important question. The fools you just paid. What did you send them into?”
“They’re going to run into robbers. If they don’t fight, all that will happen is, they’ll lose the money.”
“It isn’t supposed to turn lethal?”
The priest acted offended. “We don’t murder people … All right. Yes. There’s no need to harm them.
They’ll disappear into Grolsach’s population. They don’t know anything, really. But we can’t afford to let them keep the money. It’d ruin Immaculate’s treasury.”
Meaning the conspirators were never meant to be paid. “Why?”
“Because we have almost no income anymore. The Usurper’s …”
“I mean, why kill me?”
“I told you. You’re the only …”
“Not true.” There was no sense whatsoever in that claim. He was not that important. He was not irreplaceable. Ghort could do what he did.
Ghort said, “He believes it, Pipe. Somebody sold him.”
Hecht growled. “Stupid.”
“Can’t fix stupid. Hey, Pipe! You know you’ve made it big when people you don’t even know think they got to kill you.”
“Jealous?”
“Not quite. Brother, I don’t need nobody wanting to cut my throat. Unless maybe a jealous husband.
Sometime next century.”
“You say that only because your faith is weak,” one of the priests said.
“Weak ain’t the word, godshouter. I been around damn near forty years. I ain’t yet run into an Instrumentality what’s out to improve my life.”
Hecht interrupted. “No religious debates. It’s the middle of the night. I’m tired. I’m crabby. This is what’s going to happen. You’re going back to Viscesment. With a message. Anyone tries this again, I take it personal. The men I’ll send won’t be incompetents like Sublime’s. There won’t be any warning ahead of time from the Empire’s spies.” Osa Stile’s espionage had thwarted an attempt on Immaculate II by Sublime’s agents.
Ghort eased past the wounded man. He moved a few sacks of oats, came up with a leather money bag that was almost empty. “This is sad. It looks like they did give it all to Aubero and Ogier.”
Hecht said, “We’ll take their horses, then. You don’t mind walking in order to stay alive.”
One priest responded with a sullen nod.
Ghort offered battlefield medical advice for the care of the injured man. “Keep the wound clean. He’ll be fine if it don’t get infected. Find a healing witch. Have her make a poultice.”
“Let’s call it a night, Pinkus.”
“What? You don’t want to find out who handed these guys the job in the first place? You guys didn’t make this up yourselves, did you? Neither did your hero, Immaculate. You set up for something like this, you do a lot of spying and recruiting and training and rehearsing. You guys are just paymasters.
Maybe with different sets of instructions, depending on what happened in Brothe. Right?”
Both uninjured men grew more frightened.
“You see?” Ghort said. “You need to ask the right questions. Who sent you guys?”
A short course of vigorous, nonphysical interrogation produced a name. Rudenes Schneidel.
Rudenes Schneidel had managed everything. Planning. Personnel. Scouting the target. Paying bribes.
Recruiting the paymasters, who were otherwise unemployed lay brothers. Offered easy money, in hard times, they had no problem signing on.
Ghort asked, “Rudenes Schneidel? That somebody from back home with a bigass grudge, Pipe? You ruin his sister?”
“Never heard of him before.”
“Sounds like it comes from those parts, though.”
It does. I admit it. Any of you deal with Schneidel directly?”
The spokesman shook his head. Feeling bad for talking too much. “He used an interlocutor.”
“Can you describe him?”
Of course not. Not well. The spokesman volunteered, “I asked the go-between about Schneidel. He said he only saw him once. If it was really him. He had a foreign accent so thick you could hardly understand him.” The physical description suited every typical short fat thin tall dark brown white man you could run into on any Firaldian street.
“I’ve been here before,” Hecht said, recalling trying to get a useful description of the witch Starkden, who had been behind a scheme meant to facilitate the premature demise of Else Tage of the Sha-lug, then pretending to be the Episcopal Chaldarean crusader Sir Aelford daSkees. “He wouldn’t be a sorcerer in addition to his other transgressions, would he?”
Ghort leaned in. “We got a name. I can give it to Bo. Right now we need to get back into executive mode.”
Hecht nodded. “Enough, then. Good night, gentlemen. Brothers. We’ll include you in our prayers.”
***
PELLA WAKENED HECHT AN HOUR BEFORE FIRST LIGHT.
“Sir, them priests are stealing their horses and running away.”
“How do you know?”
“Vali saw them. She woke me up.”
“I see.” Before he finished getting his trousers on he heard horses crossing the rude pavements out front.
“They have the moon, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m a sir, now?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hecht was amused but had no time to explore the workings of Pella’s mind.
He might as well have taken time. The men from Viscesment got away easily.
There seemed little reason to hurry. Without horses the journey to Brothe could not be hastened much.
Ghort said, “Let’s just be folks headed south looking for work. So stop looking prosperous.”
Ferris Renfrow materialized. Hecht wondered how close the man had followed events last night. He seemed satisfied to watch them go. Pinkus Ghort’s paranoid side wakened. “He might plan to have us snatched out in the country somewhere.”
“Would there be a point?”
“Hell, yeah. He’d ruin Sublime’s hopes for decades. Where would that fool find two more men like us?”
“A telling point. But I doubt he rates us as highly as we rate ourselves. But to reassure you, I’ll just go ask.”
“What? Are you out of your bean?”
Hecht approached the Imperial. “The name Rudenes Schneidel mean anything? Especially in connection with Viscesment?”
Renfrow raised an eyebrow. “It’s turned up inside a few unpleasant rumors. Evidently a sorcerer. Of some attainment. But a complete blank otherwise. Why?”
“There was an assassination attempt in Brothe. You’ll be hearing about it. Schneidel was behind the play.
If that’s something you can use.”
“Probably not. The folks at Viscesment have grown increasingly independent. Tell your friend I’m going to let him get away. This time.”
Hecht laughed. “Is his act that obvious?”
“It is.”
“I’ll pass the word. One more name I want to toss up. Dumaine.”
“Dumaine?”
“That’s all I’ve go
t. I heard it in Sonsa. Overheard it. Someone who’s part of a plot involving the Durandanti family.”
The only Dumaines I know are minor Arnhander nobility. The current Viscount Dumaine is an enemy of Anne of Menand. With the enmity mostly on her side. Dumaine is a minor marcher, unimportant in Arnhander affairs, except as a scapegoat when Anne’s plans go bad. Although he spends all his time at home, fending off his cousins who are enfiefed to the King of Santerin. He evidently had the bad judgment to turn down an offer Anne made. Doing so publicly.”
Anne of Menand was the mistress of King Charlve of Arnhand, who was mentally incompetent. She wanted her son Regard to succeed. Charlve had no legitimate children. Her physical appetites were legendary. As was her malevolence toward those who crossed her.
“That wouldn’t fit. I don’t think. I must’ve heard wrong.”
“Ah. This doesn’t look good.”
A rider was coming down the West Way astride a mount so blown it could barely keep moving. The beast would be ruined forever. Yet the rider’s was not the will driving it. He was unconscious. He had tied himself into the saddle.
Ghort jogged out and intercepted the animal. It did not resist his guidance. It had no spirit left.
Hecht and Renfrow followed Ghort. Something bad had happened. Horse and rider alike were covered with dried blood, not all of it their own.
Ghort said, “It’s Ogier. Three-fourths dead.”
“They lied to us,” Hecht said.
“Priests? Tell lies? You must be joking. But, no. That’s not it. Look at these wounds.”
Hecht and the Imperial walked round man and beast. The horse’s nose practically dragged on the pavements. Hecht untied Ogier. Ghort and Renfrow lowered him to the ground. Hecht said, “He might’ve run into a rabid bear. Or a hungry lion.”
“Lion? Excuse me, Pipe. There ain’t been no fuckin’ lions in these parts since Old Brothen Imperial times.”
Renfrow agreed. “The ancients used them up in their blood games. Once in a while one would cross the Escarp Gibr al-Tar back then, maybe, but they were even hunted out on the far coast of the Mother Sea by the time of the Praman Conquest.”
“More than I needed to know.” Hecht’s amulet was responding to the residual shadow clinging to the deserter and his steed. They had fallen foul of something powerful.
Gawkers from the Knight of Wands began to gather. Hecht and Renfrow kept them back while Ghort tried to question the deserter.
Ogier was not hurt as badly as all the blood made it seem. But he would need luck to survive. Claw wounds always festered.
One client of the Knight of Wands confessed to having some small skills as a healer. Once he was satisfied that no one would denounce him to the Church he went to work on the deserter.
The Episcopal Chaldarean Church suffered from a schizophrenic attitude toward powers derived from the Instrumentalities of the Night. It railed against congress with sorcerers and witches, yet some of its greatest dignitaries were among the most powerful mages known. Talented folks not on the inside frequently suffered persecution. Particularly where the Witchfinders of the Special Office roamed.
“Well?” Hecht asked when Ghort finally came away. “Did he have a story?”
“Fraught with irony.”
“I’m surprised you even know two of those three words.”
“All right. Hang on. I’m going to do this all in one long blast. Then we need to get on down the road.”
“So, go.”
“Ogier and Aubero ran into robbers. Who robbed them. While the robbers were arguing over whether they should kill them it suddenly got icy cold. A mist closed in. The moonlight faded away. Men started screaming. Something with claws and rotten breath mauled him but got distracted before it finished him off. He passed out. He woke up at daybreak. Some of the horses were missing. The rest, along with his brother and all the robbers, were dead, some torn to pieces. He headed here because it was the only place he could think of. He kept passing out. He hid out whenever he felt that coming on. He remembers our three priests charging past. He tried to warn them but they didn’t hear him. A while later screaming broke out back the way he had come. He kept moving. He found a saddled horse grazing in a field. He caught it and calmed it, mounted up and tied himself on in case he passed out again. Something in the woods roared and started crashing toward them. The horse panicked. It ran till it couldn’t run anymore.
Then it kept walking. And here he is.”
“What happened to the money?” Some things of the Night had an abiding loathing for silver. Iron bothered a lot more, though those daunted by the ignoble metal were mainly minor entities.
“Whoever had the coins would’ve stood the best chance of surviving.” He went back to Ogier briefly, then returned to Hecht looking puzzled. “He had some silver on him that the robbers didn’t find. Their captain took the money. But he and the rest all ended up dead. The money must still be there.
Somewhere.”
Though Ghort kept his voice down, he was overheard. Members of the crowd began to find interests elsewhere. Despite complete ignorance of how much might be involved.
“Ain’t that amazing?” Ghort beckoned the one-eyed man, whispered briefly, then said, “We got to get on the road, Pipe. Trouble ain’t gonna wait on us down there.”
And so they did, turning their backs to a sudden flow northward. Hecht muttered, “They’re idiots. Eight or ten men have just been killed by a monster and all they can think about is there might be money on the corpses. What were you whispering about, there at the end?”
“About him taking care of Ogier till he can get on his feet again. I explained about the money Ogier has.
And how things will turn nasty for the Knight of Wands if he don’t do right by Ogier.”
“I see.” And saw more than Ghort perhaps intended.
Ogier and Aubero might have been family after all.
3. Alten Weinberg, Heart of the NewBrothen Empire
Princess Helspeth, Grafina fon Supfer, Marquesa of Runjan, and so forth, had come to Alten Weinberg thinking the Emperor meant to celebrate her twentieth birthday. She went to her knees three times before her little brother, Lothar, Emperor of the Grail Empire. In the presence, now, she suspected his summons had nothing to do with her birthday. The hall was filled with the ravens and vultures who orbited Lothar these days. And Katrin had come, too.
But not Ferris Renfrow. She would have been more comfortable if Renfrow were visible. You could call Ferris Renfrow the conscience of the Empire.
Helspeth did not like bending the knee but her brother was acting in his official capacity tonight. Probably reluctantly. In front of Omro va Still-Patter, Grand Duke of Hilandle, first among equals in the Council Advisory, styled the Protector. Accompanying Hilandle, interposing themselves between the Emperor and the lesser lights in the hall, were the Master of the Wardrobe, the Master of the Privy Purse, and the Lord Admiral Vondo fon Tyre, whose fleet was almost entirely imaginary. These men had gotten their claws into the Imperial power simply because Lothar was still five years short of his majority.
Helspeth’s older sister Katrin, Grafina fon Kretien and Gordon, Princess Apparent, also knelt. She did not disguise her irritation, nor her loathing, for Hilandle and his cronies. Lothar was her baby brother, her beloved “Mushin.” She had pampered him through countless illnesses, spoiling him terribly. Helspeth did not like or think well of her sister but she ould not deny that Katrin loved, nurtured, and indulged her brother selflessly. And, like Helspeth, she loathed the grasping old men who had seized control of the boy.
Tall, lean, blond, and beautiful, clad simply in dark clothing, Katrin Ege seemed cold and remote. She had her father’s stubborn will but little of the magnetism that had served him so well. That lack, her sex, and the ambition of so many nobles put her in a weaker position than she liked. But the Protector and his cronies were blinding themselves willfully, seeing either of the Ege daughters as a weakling.
All th
e children of the Ferocious Little Hans were in weaker positions than they liked.
Johannes had compelled the Electors to fashion an Act of Will and Succession that enacted, published, and ratified by the Patriarch and Collegium would withstand every possible challenge. But Johannes Blackboots had not anticipated his own death in battle. He had expected to outlive his sickly son and see the Imperial throne passed on through Katrin and her sons. He had hoped to forge powerful alliances through both daughters.
Negotiations had come and gone before Johannes fell at al-Khazen. No arrangements had been finalized.
Helspeth had been included in the succession almost as an afterthought. Johannes was thorough in everything. After Helspeth, the sons of his sister Anies were named in the Act.
It would take a major Ege family disaster to put the succession back into the hands of the Electors.
Lothar stated, “The Council Advisory has cautioned us, and we are in agreement, that the world today presents our reign with unprecedented challenges.”
This was the first time Helspeth heard Mushin use the royal “we.” It took her aback. She was not accustomed to her little brother being anything else. And, studying him closely, she suspected that this Emperor Lothar was a creation of the Grand Duke and his cronies. An eventuality she had feared increasingly as Hilandle and his flock circled more closely round the Emperor and isolated him ever more from his family and the world.
Lothar understood what was happening. A minor, he had little hope of halting the process. He had to remain strong and play one Councilor off against another. He managed that with some success.
“It has been demonstrated that our present style of life is inappropriate for a family of Imperial dignity.
The daughters of our father should not be inviting scandal and disaster by roving like common men-at-arms.”
Helspeth glared at Lothar. Half the nobility had spent the past ten years appalled and scandalized because the old Emperor not only permitted but encouraged his maiden daughters to accompany him to the field, to risk the life of the camp, and to come into regular contact with coarse, crude common soldiers.
So the Council was about to end all that.
