by Glen Cook
There was a definite change in the White City. Anticipation filled the air. Positively, not as a premonition or fore-boding. The Castreresonese were willing to bide their time.
The officially sealed message wallet from the Patriarch arrived nine days later. His staff assembled while he reviewed the messages. “Nothing unexpected here. A formal announcement that the Connecten Crusade is over. A list of Connectens who are being restored to the bosom of the Church. Including Duke Tormond and Count Raymone Garete. The siege of Antieux is to be abandoned. Castreresone should be turned over to agents of its rightful master, who are on their way. We are to withdraw down the Laur and assemble at Sheavenalle for transport.”
Redfearn Bechter said, “That makes no sense. Why wouldn’t he just tell us we’re fired? Just leave us where we are?”
“We aren’t fired. Obviously. Maybe we’re needed in Brothe. People there won’t be happy having a Direcian Patriarch. It would be Ornis of Cedelete all over again.”
There was more to the letters but little of immediate import. Hecht told the staff to make ready for movement. To finish getting ready. The order to abandon Castreresone was no surprise.
Titus Consent was last to leave. He observed, “Have you noticed who the big winner was in this crusade?”
“Navaya? King Peter?”
“Exactly. At small cost he’s become the power in the Connec. He’s been using his gains in the last crusade to take over Artecipea. Now he owns the Patriarchy. He’s letting other people build him an empire.”
“Clever.”
Inasmuch as there had been no Patriarchal instruction otherwise, Hecht left a garrison in Castreresone’s keep. They would guarantee access if he decided to come back. They would keep order. They received instructions not to resist Duke Tormond or Queen Isabeth.
Buhle Smolens prepared quarters. Despite losses, desertions, and the absence of the City Regiment the army numbered more than ten thousand. There were no forty-day men attached, either. The last of those had gone before the weather turned really ghastly. Hecht had won outside Khaurene with a third of the numbers he had had when crossing the Dechear, westbound.
Hecht assembled his senior officers and staffers.
“I wanted to thank everyone. We did well. Probably too well. The new people are afraid of us. Which leaves me suspicious of their gathering us here. They’re up to something.”
Sedlakova stood. His handicap lent no strength to his argument as he made an impassioned appeal for men of faith to enter the Brotherhood of War.
Hecht stopped listening. The others all talked about what they might do with their lives, now. The Connecten Crusade was over. Nothing had been concluded. They were not distraught, though. That was not a new experience. Castles and cities fell. Death and misery walked the earth. Little changed in the broader picture.
He sank into a reverie about Anna Mozilla and the children. Thoughts of home had had a powerful impact on him these past few months. Never had he been drawn that way back when he was Else Tage.
He had developed new dimensions here in the west.
Everyone was distracted by concerns about tomorrow, forgetting that today still harbored dangers more deadly than the nuisance perils lately offered by the Night.
Hecht and some staff went to the harbor to watch the ships come in. Peter of Navaya’s ships, mainly fat traders flying the banners of Platadura. A few lean triremes boasting Navayan colors larked around the flanks of the convoy. Hecht studied those ships and wished Pinkus Ghort was handy so they could brood over shared suspicions. He noted that several older, more weary-looking ships flew Sonsan standards and resembled vessels he had seen falling into ruin along the wharves of that city.
Shrieking birds wheeled and dove where the ships churned up the water. Though it was winter, the harbor reek was thick. The chill had reduced the insect population to a tolerable level.
Clej Sedlakova, seated on a cask, said, “Them tubs is riding high in the water. They must figure on really loading them down.” Sedlakova was in a permanent foul temper lately. He was sure that, given just a few more weeks, maybe just a few more days, he could have reduced Antieux. Even absent Bronte Doneto and the City Regiment. People inside the city had begun to put out feelers, looking for rewards.
“Put Antieux behind you,” Hecht told him. “We get paid the same sitting here as we do risking our behinds in the field.”
Colonel Smolens said, “It isn’t the risking that bothers me. It’s the freezing and starving.”
Sedlakova said, “Listen to that shit. What’s he had going, this whole war? Hanging out in Viscesment.
Then hanging out here. Check him out. He’s gained fifteen pounds.”
Smolens said, “I confess. The food is good. I’ll miss it.”
Hecht said, “You may not have to leave.”
“What? What’s this?”
“I haven’t heard anything about us giving up Sheavenalle. If King Peter is running the new Patriarch, you can bet he won’t give up control of a city this important. My guess is, they’ll try to make it over into a free city, like Sonsa or Platadura. Allied to Navaya.”
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“Sounded like a giant bumblebee.”
Twenty yards out on the mucky bay gulls dove to examine a small splash.
Madouc, always close by, still moving gingerly because of his wounds, said, “That was no bumblebee, sirs.” Then he howled, flung back against Hecht, clawing at a crossbow bolt that had penetrated the left shoulder of his leather body armor.
Another bumblebee struck the cask that served Sedlakova as his throne. Sedlakova had vanished. Most everyone had. Madouc was down and trying to drag Hecht along.
Hecht refused to be dragged.
He headed for the source of the bolts. Not thinking, just reacting. With controlled anger. Grabbing half a broken oak stave abandoned by some dock walloper. The wood was old. Probably older than he was, Hecht thought, having one of those irrelevant thoughts that surface in times of stress, when everything seems to be happening in slowed motion.
People yelled behind him, telling him to get his dumb ass down.
Someone else yelled out front, right where the assassins ought to be. He jerked to the right. A bumblebee hummed on by, headed for the harbor.
He burst into a crowd of snipers. Two were desperately spanning crossbows. The third abandoned his weapon and took off. Which made no sense to Hecht.
He clubbed the first man he came to.
The second stopped wrestling his crossbow. He produced a short sword, then a dagger in his off hand.
Hecht drew his own blade. But kept the broken stave in his right hand.
He hit the man who was down several times so he would not help his associate.
Help arrived. “There’s one more, headed that way. Dressed the same.” He dropped onto a small bale of cotton that must have been smuggled out of Dreanger. Distracted by irrelevant thoughts again, he stared at his broken stave, imagining it being used to lever cargo before its mishap.
Buhle Smolens settled beside him. “What the hell was that, Piper? You could’ve gotten killed. Which was probably the point of the exercise.”
“I didn’t think. I just acted.”
“Those boys are Artecipeans. You notice?”
“I’m not surprised. But how can you tell?”
Smolens said a blind man could see it.
“I didn’t grow up around here, Colonel. Everybody from around the Mother Sea looks pretty much the same to me.”
Smolens shook his head in disbelief. “Let me talk to these guys. They’ll get cooperative once they understand the alternative.”
Hecht began to shiver but not because he was cold.
“That was a stupid thing to do.”
The words were a whisper so soft no one else heard. Hecht glanced aside. And saw Cloven Februaren.
No one else noted the old man. Who said, “Something to worry about. Could someone els
e do the things I do?”
For sure.
“You have to be more alert, Piper. Those who want to destroy you never sleep.”
“I can’t live that way.”
‘Then you won’t live at all.” Februaren turned sideways.
Titus Consent asked, “Who were you talking to?”
“I said I can’t stand to live this way. With somebody always after me.”
“I heard another voice.”
“I don’t think so.”
Consent did not believe him. But did not contradict him. “You don’t want to keep on like this, find out who’s sending the assassins. Deal with him. Or her.”
“I know who’s doing it. I wish I knew why.”
“Who?” As Hagan Brokke wearily plunked himself down on a nearby bale, Hecht wondered why the bales were so small. Because of how they were smuggled out of Dreanger?
“Rudenes Schneidel. It’s always been Rudenes Schneidel.” He looked to Brokke. Brokke had not been there to watch the ships come in. Brokke was recovering from wounds suffered in the battle outside Khaurene, where his quick thinking had kept Queen Isabeth’s Direcians from getting through the boggy ground to the unprepared troops on the Patriarchal left. “You feeling chipper enough to go back to work?”
“No. A courier boat brought some men in from the fleet. They want to see you.”
“Some men?”
“A Principatè I don’t know who speaks only Direcian and Church Brothen. Some functionaries from the Mother City. And a big wheel Direcian.”
“And they want?”
“To talk to you.”
“I figured that part out. What about?”
“They wouldn’t say. They didn’t seem very patient.”
“Get your strength back. Then go tell them I’m tied up in another assassination attempt. As soon as I survive I’ll hustle over there to see them. Where were we, Titus?”
“Rudenes Schneidel.”
“Ah. So what have you found out about him, intelligence chief?”
“His name is Rudenes Schneidel. And he holes up in the High Athaphile, the mountains that form the spine of Artecipea. He has a castle up there. Arn Bedu. A legendary place on top of a mountain. He may be a pagan priest of some kind. His name comes up every time there’s any serious talk about Weaver, Hilt, or any of those Instrumentalities trying to make a comeback.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. He’s a shadowy guy. And a scary one, according to his assassins.”
Hecht’s party had begun gathering before Hagan Brokke appeared. Madouc’s men wanted to hurt some people. Hecht wished they would all go away so he could talk to Cloven Februaren. But he could not run them off. They would not go, now.
Buhle Smolens was last to rejoin. “I’ve made a few contacts here. I put out word that we’re interested in Artecipeans. Dozens of them have shown up since Sublime died. And they have no friends here.”
Hecht was not going to get a chance to talk to the old man in brown. “We came down to watch the ships come in. So let’s watch the ships.”
Everyone, of course, argued against taking the risk. And Titus Consent insisted on reminding him that there were important men who wanted to see him.
Colonel Smolens had established himself in the home of a wealthy Praman who had fled Sheavenalle ahead of the approaching Patriarchals. Hecht felt a mild melancholy nostalgia there. The place showed strong Praman architectural influences. Entering, he spun off orders for dealing with prisoners and wounded. His visitors from the fleet heard the hubbub and came outside.
Redfearn Bechter had collected every man Hecht had ever suspected of being Brotherhood. They were arrayed around the newcomers suggestively, only a few of whom understood that they were surrounded.
Hecht read it fast.
These people had arrived with an attitude problem. And had failed to make themselves beloved.
Someone had said something unflattering about the Brotherhood of War.
The Brotherhood did not care if you were a king. They were a kingdom unto themselves.
Hecht had seen only one of the newcomers before. He was a Witchfinder who knew his way around the Brothen catacombs. He was extremely uncomfortable right now.
The Principatè, too, understood and was thoroughly unhappy, but mainly because he was not in control.
The ingredients were there for a nasty pissing contest.
Hecht was tempted. He had reason. But the long game compelled him to be amenable. “Sergeant Bechter. Have these gentlemen been made comfortable?” He told the outsiders, “We’re in a difficult situation, here. But we can protect you if you don’t wander around. We’ve swept up a lot of villains since they tried to kill me this afternoon.”
Hustle was the critical tool, here. Moving the outsiders around fast. Implying that a swift response, if not thoroughly effective, was better than any alternative.
Hecht asked, “What did you gentlemen want to bring to my attention, now that we’re safe?”
Hecht kept moving, maneuvering the outsiders into the sprawling groundfloor space he had chosen for his center of operations in Sheavenalle.
He settled into a heavy oak chair. “Gentlemen. Again? You hurried in here, ahead of the fleet. You must have something you want to discuss before God’s enemies find out that you’re here.”
The Witchfinder seemed ever more uncomfortable. He searched his surroundings constantly. Cloven Februaren? Sobering thought. “Well?”
The Principatè took control. “I am Hernando Ernesto Ribiero de Herve, Patriarchal legate assigned to bring peace to the End of Connec. Too, I’ve been directed to crush paganism on Artecipea. Pacificus Sublime believes Rudenes Schneidel and his revenant Instrumentalities are a greater threat than the pacifist, dualist Connecten heretics.”
Hecht exchanged glances with his staff. De Herve noticed. “I see you agree.”
“I never understood why Sublime was so adamant about exterminating them.”
“Did you ask?”
“I did. I got a rambling answer that made no sense. But I’m not paid to ask questions. I’m paid to get things done.” The Witchfinder made a startled squeak and spun. Everyone stared. He said, “Must have been a flea.” But he did not believe that.
“Knock it off, old man,” Hecht said.
Now everyone stared at him, the Witchfinder with abiding suspicion.
De Herve said, “Pacificus Sublime wants the crusade shifted to Artecipea.”
“Which explains the fleet.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t manage Artecipea with the troops you have there now?”
The Principatè managed to appear baffled.
“King Peter has put several thousand soldiers in there. Sonsa is involved, too. And wasn’t there a significant victory not long ago?”
“Each victory makes it more difficult to manage the survivors.”
The Witchfinder said, “We’re convinced that the chaos in the Connec has Artecipean influence behind it.
That it was meant to be a diversion from what’s going on over there. What we found in Calzir, especially at al-Khazen, has led some of us to believe there’s a greater threat than Praman ambition. We first encountered the name Rudenes Schneidel there. We think that Schneidel developed his dread of the Captain-General after seeing what happened there. For some reason, the Night has decided that Piper Hecht is a walking, talking doom destined to destroy it. Unless he’s destroyed first.”
“What?”
De Herve nodded agreement. “Brother Jokai puts it plainly. All who commune with the Night know the Instrumentalities fear you irrationally and excessively.”
Hecht felt a chill. Those who communed with the Night might learn more about the Godslayer than he wanted known. “I don’t understand.”
Jokai said, “You don’t have to, Captain-General. None of us do. We accept what is and deal with that reality.”
A man from the Special Office of the Brotherhood of War talking about accepting
the Night as it really was?
De Herve said, “That’s neither here nor there. The Patriarch wants to know if you’ll stay on if the crusade shifts to Artecipea, Rudenes Schneidel, and his corpse birds, these Asparas of Seska.”
That startled Hecht. Asparas were Sky Dancers. Minions of Kharoulke the Windwalker. Seska, the Endless, was an Instrumentality of the same ancient age and dark dominion, but from the pantheon that had preceded all other pantheons in Dreanger. “Seska? Asparas I understand. For the Windwalker they were like the ravens who brought rumors and whispers to Ordnan.”
Jokai explained Seska. Great Old Gods must be his specialty. He concluded, “Seska is something like an older, darker Adversary. Some think Seska has survived into modern times, in reduced circumstance, hiding parts of himself in the devils of our age.”
“All right,” Hecht said. “I don’t get it. But I don’t have to. I’m a soldier. I get paid to get things done.
Principatè, are we supposed to ship over to Artecipea right away?”
“Yes. Sorry. The campaign hasn’t gone well, lately. The thinking …”
“Excuse me. Titus, see what that man wants.”
The meeting would not be interrupted for trivialities.
Consent came back. “He didn’t say how the information came. There’s been some big sorcerous event in the catacombs in Brothe. Not as destructive as the one that destroyed the hippodrome, but Principatè Delari’s house fell into a hole. The catacombs collapsed underneath it.”
The temperature dropped suddenly and dramatically. Hecht’s ears popped.
De Herve asked, “What just happened?”
Jokai said, “Something left us. I felt it before. Now I don’t.” He seemed more worried than ever.
Hecht asked, “Could that be connected with this?”
“What happened in Brothe?”
“Yes.” Hecht watched closely. The Witchfinders were close to Bronte Doneto. Though Cloven Februaren claimed that Hecht and Principatè Delari had misinterpreted events in the catacombs badly.
That those Witchfinders had not been in league with the monster Delari slew under the hippodrome. The animosity between Doneto and Delari was, however, real. And there had been congress between the Witchfinders
