by Glen Cook
and Rudenes Schneidel, the latter unaware that he was dealing with the former. Schneidel thought he was manipulating ordinary Special Office sorts, his goal the destruction of the Godslayer. The Witchfinders wanted to worm deeply enough into Schneidel’s scheme to get at the man trying to resurrect the horrors of antiquity. Hecht’s walk-through in Sonsa, with Pinkus Ghort, had started all that unraveling.
The Ninth Unknown had reported all that in snippets during the Connecten campaign. He had discovered no real significance to Vali Dumaine, however. He could not even confirm old Bit’s claims about the girl’s origins.
“Probably. The Artecipeans have been active there. As you know.”
“Yes.”
“You seem particularly disturbed by this news.”
“I’ve been close to Principatè Delari. He’s been especially kind to me and mine.” In truth, though, what troubled him was confirmation that Cloven Februaren could move from one place to another without setting foot to the ground between.
There was much to learn about his guardian angel.
Principatè de Herve asked, “How long will you need to get ready for transport?”
“I could start some units loading tomorrow. But our animals might be a problem.”
De Herve said, “Transport won’t be any trouble. These crews know how to move troops and animals, both. Loading in this port could become an adventure, though. Sea levels have dropped so far that only smaller vessels can warp in to the wharves and still have water under their keels at low tide if they’re loaded. The pilot who brought us in said the dredges can’t take any more mud off the bottom.
Sheavenalle’s senate
has talked about building new wharves farther out. But if the Mother Sea keeps getting shallower they’ll have the same problem again in a few years.”
“They should build floating wharves that can be pushed out as the shoreline moves.” That seemed obvious enough.
“But they aren’t there now. It’s now that we need to load.”
Hecht made himself unpopular by talking about loadmasters and cargo other than human. His force came with an immense amount of duffel, weaponry, equipment, and animals. A lot of technical, dull business stuff had to be managed so the men with sharp steel could show up where they were needed, with tents to sleep in, food to eat, and horses to ride.
His lifeguards and the Brothers were relaxed, now. They no longer expected a head-butting contest.
Once he had bored the newcomers cross-eyed witty workaday details of army management, Hecht said,
“Colonel Smolens, assemble the officers. Explain what we’ve been asked to do. Be clear. I want them to poll the troops. Find out how many will stick with us.” There had been a lot of talk about seeing Brothe again, at all levels.
Smolens said, “I don’t think many will drop out.”
“We need hard numbers. We have ships to load. We have a new war to plan.” In a land almost completely unknown.
The Captain-General was tired. He was seeing double. It was deep in the night. He was studying bad maps with men from the transport fleet, none of whom had been to Artecipea. They knew only that the new Patriarch wanted them to land on the west coast of Artecipea, near Homre, a fishing port on the north lobe of the island.
Artecipea consisted of two distinct land masses joined by an isthmus at one point only slightly more than a mile wide. The northern mass was a third the size of the southern. The northern people spoke a language not unintelligible to the folk of the End of Connec. Those from the south could make themselves understood to outsiders only with difficulty. According to Principatè de Herve Artecipea strongly preferred the Seska revivalists, other pagans, Pramans, and several varieties of primitive Chaldareans, to the Brothen Episcopal Church. Brothen Episcopals controlled only a few port cities. God and the Church had a more solid grip up north, though the mountain peoples there were all pagans, too, and lately devoted to Rudenes Schneidel.
All the fighting, so far, had occurred on the southern lobe.
Pacificus Sublime wanted to land an army behind an enemy focused south and east. A powerful, veteran army commanded by a man who had scores to settle with Rudenes Schneidel.
Hecht understood the thinking. He could not find fault with it. He could not imagine Schneidel having anticipated what was about to happen.
A change of Patriarchs changed the world.
Titus Consent, scarcely able to keep his eyes open, brought news Hecht would have waited, willingly, years to hear. “It’s a day for harsh news, boss,” Titus said.
“Give it to me. I’m numb enough to take anything, now.”
“King Charlve suffered a massive stroke and died. It looks legitimate. Anne of Menand was nowhere around when it happened. But she was ready to go. She got hold of the instruments of power before anyone could catch their breath. That’s just in from Salpeno.”
“What’s it mean for us?”
“Not much. It may mean a lot for Arnhand and the Connec. Despite her loose behavior, Anne is very religious. And ambitious. The Connec, with its heretics, has already given her excuses to express the one through the other.”
Hecht frowned. “Oh? Which is which?”
“Write it yourself. It doesn’t matter.”
“We’re out of it now, though, aren’t we?”
“We should be.”
“Are you going home? Or are you coming with me?”
“I’m going to Artecipea. Reluctantly. I have a child I’ve never seen.”
“Noë deserves sainthood. On a throne in Heaven right beside Anna.”
“Anna is more used to being her own mistress.”
“Do you wonder about the Night determining times of drastic change? About what forces might be in motion?”
“You just lost me, Captain-General.”
“In an historically minuscule time span we’ve lost a powerful Grail Emperor, a driven Patriarch, and the sovereign of the most militantly religious Episcopal Chaldarean kingdom. All harbingers of dramatic change. Especially considering the advance of the ice.”
Titus grunted indifferently. He was too tired to worry about it. “I’m going to bed. Court-martial me if you want. Execution is starting to smell sweet.”
“So waste your life on sleep, weakling.” Hecht settled into a chair, out of the way, and tried to relax, rest, and recuperate while he eavesdropped on his deputies and the men from the fleet.
Hecht’s ears hurt suddenly, briefly. For one instant the air. seemed dense and oppressive. He did not care. He was too tired.
“False alarm,” someone breathed into his ear. “Muniero is fine. Heris is fine. Anna and your children are fine. I’ve brought letters from all of them. There was some damage to the town house. Likewise, certain other properties. There is little likelihood of further problems. In the short run. Joceran Cuito has a new vision for the Church.”
Piper Hecht pretended he heard the voices of distant ancestors, out of nowhere, all the time. “What will the new situation in Arnhand mean?” Hoping to catch the Ninth Unknown out He did not. “Misery for the End of Connec. In time. You’ll be able to throw up your hands and say it wasn’t your fault You were gone before the real wretchedness started.”
Hecht had no idea what the ancient was babbling about. He did have brainpower enough to realize that his mutterings were attracting attention. Jokai, in particular. The Witchfinder had that constipated look again. Hecht said, “Gentlemen, I need to go lie down. I’ve started talking to myself.” His staff could see what needed doing and could get on it without detailed instructions.
Hecht removed his boots before lying down. Nothing more. “I meant what I said about resting. There’s nothing that needs talking about so desperately that it can’t wait till I’m able to uncross my eyes.”
“I brought letters.”
“They’ll be there in the morning. Go away.” He closed his eyes. Briefly, he wondered how Februaren accomplished so much in so little time. Then his lifeguards were rousting
him out. One told him that Madouc would survive his wound. Again. “The man needs to retire. You can’t win, you keep throwing the bones with Death.”
That got him some looks.
Despite obstacles and confusion, a dozen loaded ships warped out next day. To Hecht’s surprise, most of the Patriarchal soldiers had chosen to stay. He blamed that on the harsh times.
Those who had become part of the army during its progress through the Connec were those most inclined to leave. Men with families did not want to leave them behind.
***
HECHT WAS ABOARD SHIP AND EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTable. He did not like travel by ship. And this ship in particular disturbed him.
Titus Consent joined him at the rail, in the waist of the vessel, where he stared back at Sheavenalle. “It’s official, sir. The ships will have to make two trips. We’re moving more people and animals and stuff than I would’ve thought possible.”
“It’s pretty impressive when you lump it all together.” Hecht caught a glimpse of a man in brown trying to avoid notice on the crowded deck. That was good for a boost.
Consent asked, “Why the bleak look?”
“Ever been out on the Mother Sea?”
“No.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“When were you ever out?”
“When Ghort and I sneaked off to Sonsa.” Sonsa? The wrongness about the ship hit him. He had been aboard her before, coming over from Staklirhod.
“What now?” Consent asked. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I just remembered how awful it got when we hit bad weather. Pray there aren’t any storms. Are there storms sea this time of year? Do you know?”
“No. Of course not.”
Hecht caught a passing deckhand. “Are there storms out there this time of year? What’s this ship’s name?”
Head cocked, not quite sure about the Captain-General’s sanity, the deckhand said, “Not so many storms this time of year, sir. In another month, month and a half, maybe. Her name is Vivia Infante, sir.”
Consent asked, “Why does the name matter?”
“Where I come from people worry about the names of ships. Crewman, do we have a veteran crew?
Men who have been aboard a long time?”
“Yes, sir. All experienced hands. We’ll get you there safely, sir. I promise.” He got away from the crazy man as fast as he could.
Consent said, “Sir, you’d better get hold of yourself. You’re being watched. The men have never seen you show fear or a lack of confidence. Headed into a war with a sorcerer of the apparent stature of Rudenes Schneidel is no time to strain their faith.”
“You’re right. Of course. You always are.” He had meant to mask his interest in the possibility that there might be someone aboard who could recall a down-on-his-luck, homeward-bound crusader named Sir Aelford daSkees. “But I can’t help thinking about what’s swimming around down there, waiting to eat me.”
“It’s good to see you have a human side, sir.”
“Sarcasm duly noted, Lieutenant. In your intelligence capacity, find out why Sonsa is suddenly best pals with King Peter. They’ve been in a halfhearted war with Platadura for the last hundred years.”
“That one’s easy. Economics. Sonsa lost. They’ve joined the winners. It’s their alternative to economic extinction.”
Probably true, Hecht thought. But … was there still some hidden connection with the Brotherhood of War?
Good thing it was Pinkus Ghort and the City Regiment who occupied Sonsa. Otherwise, these sailors might see a chance to pay off a grudge.
***
THE CROSSING WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO TAKE LONG. A little voice in Hecht’s ear promised him good weather all the way. He stayed out from underfoot and, when opportunity afforded, dipped into the letters from Anna and the kids. Over and over. Anna was stoically living the life of a woman whose man had a career that kept him away, a sort of benign, resigned, artificial widowhood. The children were living the excited lives of kids who had no wants and few fears. Pella’s letter was, in the main, a vehicle for showing off his rapid grasp of learning. Hecht was impressed but thought Pella needed to improve his penmanship.
Vali’s letter was brief and clearly a work of obligation. She was well. She hoped the war would be over soon so he could come home and make Anna smile more. Anna worried too much. There was a lot of rioting in the city, lately. She did not understand. She liked Lila, the girl he had sent.
And that was that. Except for the missive from Principatè Delari, which just told him to take care. To be prepared to undergo an intense educational experience once he returned to the Mother City.
Half of Hecht’s staff was aboard Vivia Infante. Colonel Smolens had been left behind. Hecht hoped to keep him in Sheavenalle, in control, indefinitely, as a logistical root for the Patriarchal forces in Artecipea.
Rather than having that support come out of Brothe, at the mercy of whatever political wind happened to be blowing there.
Staff work proceeded, as best it could with limited information. Hecht could not find anyone who had visited the area where he was expected to land. Some genius in Brothe had picked it off a map because it looked like a handy place to get behind the pagans. Brother Jokai — full name Jokai Svlada, from Creveldia — assured him that a Brotherhood team had crossed over from the Castella dollas Pontellas to explore the region. Quietly. They would be waiting for the fleet.
“That’s good thinking.”
“The Brotherhood has a lot of experience at these things.”
“What are the chances they’d be spotted by the enemy and captured? I wouldn’t want to show up and find an army waiting for me.”
“They’re good. They’re used to operating inside Praman territory in the Holy, Lands. Those who don’t learn how to do it don’t live to try it again.”
“I look forward to meeting these paragons.”
Clej Sedlakova came round. “Stomach all right, boss? You don’t seem as rattled as you were.”
“I’m fine. Too busy obsessing about the deep trouble we could be in after we get there to worry about being seasick.” Seasickness was troubling him not at all. Might Cloven Februaren be to blame?
He wished he could talk to the old man. But that could not happen. In his most private moments two lifeguards were within touching distance. Always. Even now. To them every Sonsan crewman was a potential assassin.
None of those men recognized Hecht. He wore his hair shorter now, affected a small goatee beard, and dressed like a Brothen noble. He bore no resemblance to the ragged, hirsute Sir Aelford daSkees. He did recognize several deckhands. None paid any attention to him.
Hecht consulted Drago Prosek often. Just three falcons remained functional. He wanted them instantly available for any confrontation with a major Instrumentality. He was sure something would come from the deeps to attack the fleet. There were old thalassic Instrumentalities uglier than any revenants stirring ashore.
A little voice told him he was wasting his worry. This enemy had no traffic with gods of the sea, nor with any lesser Night thing living on or under the water. Hecht refused to be reassured.
The first day the fleet followed the Connecten coast eastward, barely making headway. It was ninety miles from Sheavenalle to the mouth of the Dechear River. The fleet reached that around noon the second day. It hugged the coast thirty miles more, then turned directly south. The sailors expected to spy Artecipea before sundown the third day. Winds permitting. They would then follow Artecipea’s western coast to the landing site.
Piper Hecht experienced it as a far longer journey ihan the actuality. The first day was intense, the second more relaxed. There was nothing to do but talk. He pulled rank and forced himself on the ship’s master.
He wanted charts showing the land he had to invade.
Horatius Andrade was cooperative. So much so that Hecht became suspicious. But he trusted almost no one lately, Consent reminded him.
The charts were reliab
le, Andrade insisted, but concentrated on the waters off Artecipea, noting only those land features useful as navigational aids. Hecht asked, “Have you been this way before? Have you seen these coasts?”
“A long time ago. On another ship. It’s never been a friendly coast.”
“You know Homre?”
“Only by repute. It’s a glorified fishing village at the mouth of the Sarlea River. I haven’t been past in over twenty years. Sea levels have dropped. But even then we couldn’t have brought any of these ships into that harbor.”
“Are there beaches we can use?”
“Not there. Farther south. Do I know you? Your voice sounds familiar. Have you been aboard ViviaInfante before?”
“No. But I did sneak through Sonsa on a secret mission last year. Caused a big stir around a sporting house with galleons in the name.”
“Maybe. Strange. I remember voices better than faces.”
“I used to not have the beard and wore my hair in the Brotherhood style. Thanks for your help. I don’t think we’ll land at Homre.”
Clej Sedlakova joined Hecht late the second afternoon, after what little information anyone had about Artecipea had been talked to death. “Sir, I don’t know how, why, when, where, any of those damn things, but when I dipped into my locker to dig out something for supper, I found these under my stuff.
Sergeant Bechter says he thinks we have a guardian Instrumentality.”
Vivia Infante had scores of lockers on her main deck, in places out of the way, there so travelers could stow their possessions.
“An interesting find, Colonel. An interesting find indeed. And so conveniently timed.”
“Maybe Bechter is right. Maybe not all the Instrumentalities are our enemies.”
“That occurred to me, too. Let’s hope it’s true.” Sedlakova had discovered copies of several ancient maps. The commentary on them was in Old Brothen. Not the Church version, either. They showed Artecipea as two islands. In modern times an isthmus joined them. Titus Consent said, “Sea levels have really dropped since classical times. Which means the changes in the world have been going on for a long time.”
