by Glen Cook
The voices were clearer but no words stood out. Hecht decided he was hearing a foreign language.
Two men were arguing. A third added a tired whine while a fourth rambled through a “Why me?”
soliloquy.
What were they doing? They could be up to no good. Not down here.
Osa stopped him with a touch. The boy set his lantern down, crept forward.
Hecht breathed hard, heart hammering. He sweated. His exposed skin grew muddy.
Stile had not lost his Sha-lug skills. Which meant there was hope for a Sha-lug captain seduced by western decadence.
Osa sank down behind a rubble sprawl. Hecht joined him, looked at six men on what might have been a tiled floor as expansive as that of the underground cathedral. Most of which was now buried. All six wore monk’s robes. Their hoods were up and their faces were concealed by cloth — because of the dust, not any desire to be sinister. Though that effect resulted.
The argument continued between two of the six. Another two kicked in randomly while a silent pair stood on the far edge of the light cast by six earthenware lamps. Those two seemed obsessively intent on something in the darkness beyond them.
Now that he could hear them clearly Hecht felt he ought to be able to understand what was being said.
He had heard that language before.
He thought he should know the voices, too.
The grinding returned. It came from beyond the silent watchers. Grumbling, the whole band surged that way, into the darkness.
“I don’t understand,” Hecht breathed to Osa. “I don’t like this.”
“They have a prisoner. It keeps trying to get away. They’re waiting for instructions. They’ve sent two messengers. There’s been no answer. The argument is over whether to send another.”
“You understand them?”
“They’re speaking a Creveldian dialect. Hard to follow but what they’re saying is pretty basic. They can’t go but they’re afraid of what will happen if they stay.”
Another heavy groan of terra-cotta.
Osa finished, “They’re Witchfinders. And they’ve caught something that won’t let them go.”
The two who entertained themselves arguing returned to the light. Which was like none Hecht had seen before. It was not just the dust that made the lamps burn an odd color.
They must do the same work as Principatè Delari’s lanterns.
And the more so when one Witchfinder removed his face covering to clear his nose by blocking one nostril while blowing through the other.
He was the man who had given Hecht dispatches for Sonsa when he and Ghort were about to sneak out of Brothe.
Osa squeezed his left arm fiercely, cautioning him against sudden movement.
Time passed.
The argument resumed. The whiners became more involved. They were all tired and thirsty and hungry.
And nothing useful was happening.
Hecht did not need to speak the language. He had been a soldier all his life.
What to do? There was no obvious way to bypass this bottleneck. This was a fool’s errand. They had no plan and no intelligence. Pure storyteller’s heroic nonsense.
The argument peaked in a furious exchange.
One of the silent pair threw his hands up, frustrated, then stamped away into the darkness. The others did not catch on immediately. Then the argument became much more heated.
Osa breathed, “These five believe that six Witchfinders is the minimum needed to control it.”
“It?”
Stile shrugged. “Or him. Those two want to get out of here while they still can without being recognized.”
Hecht now caught the occasional phrase. He could not disagree with the catamite’s interpretation.
He did not like being at the mercy of someone he trusted so little.
He smiled. Chances were, Osa did not like being at the mercy of Piper Hecht, either.
Earthenware ground against stone. The Witchfinders shut up. The one Hecht had identified took charge.
The sound grew louder and more malignant. The Witchfinders reacted with the speed of those who knew they had just one desperate chance. To the sound. Fearfully. As a babble of Old Brothen echoed all round.
For an instant Hecht thought his left hand was being ripped off his wrist.
“What?” Osa asked, startled.
“Smacked my knuckles against a rock.” He had, in fact, done just that, responding to the sudden pain.
“That was dumb.”
The pain faded to a throb, like a wound an hour old. Hecht had lived with that before.
Shouts of anger and fear. Groan of terra-cotta ground against stone. Shouts of triumph. Hecht’s pain faded.
Osa had been about to cross the lighted area when the self-congratulations started. He dove back into shadow just in time. Two Witchfinders supported a third who was unable to work his legs. They settled in the center of the light.
The injured man passed out as soon as his associates set him down. One said something like, “We’ve got to get out of here! We just used up our luck.”
The last two men stumbled into the light.
The Witchfinder in charge gave orders. Three men hurried back into the darkness. They began making noise.
The senior Witchfinder opened his unconscious associate’s robe. The man wore little underneath. Hecht saw no obvious wounds or traumas.
“They’re piling stones onto something so it can’t move,” Osa said.
One of the three leapt back into the light, babbling.
Osa translated: “The other two just ran away. He wants this guy to haul ass with him. This guy says they can’t leave their buddy behind.”
Hecht breathed, “Maybe we shouldn’t be here, either.”
Nobody got the chance to run.
The terra-cotta grind had a triumphant ring. The Witchfinders grabbed their unconscious comrade …
Stone flew.
Hecht and Stile embraced the cracked tile floor. Stones up to the size of a fist hurtled around, smashing into rubble and pillars. All three Witchfinders got hit.
The air filled with dust. Hecht’s eyes began drying out. He fought down a sneeze. Osa did sneeze, then blew his nose desperately, but only Hecht noticed. The Witchfinders had been pounded into unconsciousness.
A little voice called, “Help.” It seemed familiar.
None of the lamps suffered till the final moment of the stone storm. Then one shattered, scattering burning oil in a spray eight feet long. One Witchfinder caught fire. He leapt up and took off blindly, screaming.
“Help!” A little louder. Followed by a weak terra-cotta grind and a rattle of disturbed rubble.
Osa blurted, “That sounded like the Principatè!”
Hecht thought so, too, but was suspicious of anything that happened easily.
“This is easy?” Stile asked.
“We’ll check it out.” Easy or not. “But there’re men out there that we don’t want to see us.”
“Cut their throats.”
“Let’s see if we can’t find something less savage and final.”
“They’re Brotherhood of War. Special Office. The worst of the worst.”
“We aren’t in the Holy Lands. Our work isn’t tactical. Let the Principatè decide what to do. If we find him.”
“Help!” Louder, now.
“He knows we’re here.”
“Get busy.”
Stile produced a wicked little knife with a slight bend at its end. He sliced strips from the cassock of the man who had handed Hecht that courier wallet, back when.
“Yes. Him first. He’s the dangerous one.”
Both men recovered during the binding. Hecht was not pleased. But he stuck to his decision to leave them to the mercy of Principatè Delari.
His left wrist ached.
***
A HALF-DOZEN GRAIN JARS HAD BEEN SET INTO THE FLOOR.
Three were occupied by corpses. They had not been dead long. Anoth
er held Principatè Muniero Delari.
Its lid lay at an angle in the opening. Tumbled blocks lay scattered all round. The lid made that characteristic groan as they dragged it aside.
The old man was weak but in good spirits and game.
“Looks like there’s been some sorcery here,” Osa said. “They used no sorcery themselves, though. They just tried to keep the lid on.”
Hecht hoisted the old man. “Thank you,” Delari breathed. “I thought I’d made a fatal mistake this time.
How did you find me?”
“Chance and reason. Armand knew you’d gone hunting down here. I guessed that would be where the hippodrome fell down.”
“Fell down?”
“Collapsed. Into a big hole in the ground.”
“I thought some of the roof fell in when … Oh, drat! I miscalculated seriously, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know. What did you do?”
“I brought a keg of firepowder …” He coughed. “Laced with silver and iron pellets. It worked. The monster charged into the trap. I fired the powder. The explosion killed the thing.”
Hecht sighed. The man was being disingenuous, to say the least.
Delari continued. “Firepowder is new to me. The explosion was more violent than I expected. I set the keg against a pillar so the force would all blow toward the monster.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“So I found out.”
“How did you get down in that hole?” Stile asked.
“They put me there. The servants of the beast. They found me unconscious and put me down there.”
“The Witchfinders?”
“Witchfinders?”
‘The men keeping you here were Special Office,” Hecht said. “One of them was involved with what they were doing in Sonsa, too.”
“Where are they now? How did you get past them?”
“We didn’t.”
Stile said, “Most of them ran away. We have two of them tied up.”
“Take me there.” The old man was coming back.
Even so, Hecht scooped Delari up and carried him to where the Witchfinders were trying to wriggle free.
“Put me down, Piper. Turn them around so I can look them in the eye. Ah! Gryphen Pledcyk.” That was the man Hecht had met on the wharf. “Explain yourself.”
Pledcyk avoided the old man’s eye.
Osa said, “The rest claimed they were going for help.”
“Let help come. In the form of the man behind this.” Delari considered the other captive. “I don’t recognize this one. Show me his bare back.”
Hecht did as instructed. Delari grunted.
“Sir?”
“He has the tattoo. That means this is a Brotherhood operation.”
The nameless man started to protest. He shut up, as Pledcyk gave him an ugly look.
Delari said, “Kill Pledcyk. It’ll take too long to break him. The other one will talk to save his own skin.”
Hecht hesitated. Osa slid behind Pledcyk, grabbed the man’s hair, yanked his head back. Pledcyk did not struggle.
Delari nodded.
Stile did it. Using that nasty little knife.
Hecht jumped, surprised.
No one was more surprised than Gryphen Pledcyk.
Delari asked the other, “Can you walk?”
The Witchfinder nodded, thoroughly cowed.
“Armand. Take him to my apartment. Kill him if he gives you any trouble. Don’t attract attention. I’ll question him after we clean up here.”
Osa beckoned the captive. “Come.”
Hecht asked, “Are you sure, sir?”
“You mean, can I handle this?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll manage. But if I do run dry, carry me.”
“If I can find the way.”
Pledcyk continued to bleed out, his eyes filled with terror.
Hecht suspected the Principatè was making statements on several levels. Delari said, “I’ll stay awake.”
Hecht had nothing more to say. He watched Osa herd the captive into the darkness. And worried that Delari might not be as blind about the catamite as might be hoped.
“Was I too harsh, Piper?”
“About Pledcyk? I think so. Yes.”
“He knew you were down here. His bunch shouldn’t have been. There’d be no explaining why they threw me in that hole. Which I wasn’t intended to survive.”
“We found dead men in three of the others. I don’t know who they were. Yes. I understand the rationale for killing Pledcyk. I’m a soldier. But he might have told us something interesting.”
“He might have. Yes. That’s sound soldier’s thinking. But a sorcerer can follow other paths to the truth. A fact you should keep in mind. I’m going to nap, now. Wake me when company comes.”
“Sir?”
The old man went out like a snuffed candle.
Hecht supposed he was right. Someone would come. If for no other reason than to get rid of the evidence.
The monster Delari claimed to have slain. What was it? Truly an Instrumentality of the Night? In Brothe?
Why? How did it get here? Was it really responsible for all those horrible killings?
Whatever the facts, Delari had thought the danger sufficient that he had visited the catacombs personally to eliminate it.
Hecht jostled the Principatè. “Someone coming, sir.”
“Get out of sight. Jump in if it’s too much for me to handle.”
“You know who it’ll be?”
“I have a suspicion. It’s likely to get out of hand if you’re seen. Go on!”
Hecht drifted back to where he and Osa had crouched earlier. He felt more positive once he reclaimed his lantern. Osa, he noted, had taken his.
Delari slumped, a man too exhausted to do anything but breathe.
Hecht crouched, lantern and blade ready, and hoped for the best. Those who were coming would not be starving refugees armed with rusty tools.
The first entered the light warily, weapon hand demonstratively empty. He considered Delari and Gryphen Pledcyk. He wore a cloth across his face to help with the dust.
Sudden concern. Tracks. They would point like an arrow … But something had erased them. The dust appeared undisturbed.
Delari had managed it with barely a tickle from Hecht’s amulet.
A lesson? Certainly another point worth remembering.
A second man entered the light. Gryphen Pledcyk had more impact.
Two more arrived, men who had fled earlier.
Principatè Delari transformed. A tired, slumping wreck of an ancient metamorphosed into a thing of power. He seemed taller than normal and much younger. His voice was stronger than ever Hecht had heard. “Come on into the light.”
Nothing happened.
“Time to come in out of the darkness. You may not surrender to the Will of the Night.”
Hecht felt a presence beyond the range of the lamps. And a man did come forward a moment later.
Another Witchfinder who had fled earlier. He pretended Gryphen Pledcyk was invisible. He asked,
“Where are Tomaz and Chollanzc?”
Delari gestured at the darkness. “Out there. You. There. Come in out of the darkness. It’s not too late.
The beast is dead. But another will come. Sooner or later, the Night will creep in. Come into the light.
While you can.”
Bronte Doneto stepped forward. He wore a monkish cassock like the others. He had his face covered.
But Hecht recognized him even before he said, “You knew it was me.”
“I suspected Honario, actually. No one else is so desperate to rewrite the world to conform to his own fantasies. Have you convinced yourself that you can manipulate the Instrumentalities of the Night with impunity?”
Doneto did not answer the question. “My cousin has a scheme. He’ll destroy the Church before he’s done.”
“You surrender to the Will of the Night to rescue Mother Church fro
m Sublime’s insanity?”
How the devil had he made that leap? But Hecht was too stunned by Doneto’s appearance to work that out — considering the fact that Delari would have observed Doneto all his life.
Delari said, “Don’t be thinking what you’re thinking, Bronte. You tell yourself, ‘He’s a thousand years old.
He’s got to be worn out after everything he’s been through. There’s six of us and one of him.’ But the one of him is the Unknown. You have a touch of talent. But that’s all you have. Come back into the light.”
“Your own son …”
“Was a lord of the Brotherhood. And powerful before his mishap. But even in his deepest despair he never surrendered to the Will of the Night.”
Hecht was not sure Delari was right about that.
“Come back into the light, Bronte Doneto. Explain what you were up to in Sonsa. Do what you need to do so you and your Witchfinders don’t end up like Gryphen Pledcyk.”
“You seem to have it all figured out.”
“But I could have you all wrong, too. I’m thinking there might be an effort to keep Sublime from collecting his payoff from Anne of Menand. Or just to steal it. You’ve always been closer to Honario than you pretend to the rest of us. And you’ve always been less loyal than you pretend to him. Again, let me caution you against giving in to temptation. You aren’t strong enough.”
Hecht could see Doneto weighing his chances.
Muniero Delari made two sudden gestures. The man nearest him shrieked and collapsed into a violent seizure. A second shriek came from the rubbled darkness, from over Delari’s right shoulder. A crossbow twanged. A bolt rattled around, never seen.
Everyone ducked. Except Principatè Muniero Delari. He did something. Two more Witchfinders collapsed. Quietly, this time.
The old man said, “And then there were three. Come back to the light, Bronte Doneto.”
Principatè Doneto bowed his head in submission. Hecht considered that suspect. Principatè Delari would do so, too. And Doneto would understand that perfectly.
Pretense all the way round.
Delari asked, “What have you been doing, young Bronte?”
“You figured it out. We meant to scuttle Honario’s plan.”
That might be, Hecht thought. But there would be more.
Doneto’s feigned surrender was a fiction that would bring this confrontation to an end with no harm done.
