by Glen Cook
Brother Candle stayed in Antieux way longer than he planned. Worldly things had a definite hold. He was reluctant to leave companionship he had enjoyed so long. As though Socia had become the family he had put aside to walk the path to Perfection.
But he could not stall forever. The Seekers of the west needed leadership and encouragement. And he needed his refreshment of the soul.
“Raymone,” he said reluctantly, accepting the lead of a pack donkey the Count had nicknamed Socia for its stubbornness, “I’ve decided how you can repay me. Other than with this tragic beast, who will no doubt be taken by bandits before I’m out of sight of the wall.”
“Not while you wear the pilgrim’s robe, Master. They’re superstitious, living out there with the Night so close. They won’t trouble you.”
“Yes. Only the Church will dare. Eh?”
“As you say. What boon would you have of me?”
“Peace being impractical, protection for those who follow the Path.”
Count Raymone lowered his face as though to a king. “So shall it be, Master. So long as I have breath.”
Socia, standing by quietly, reluctant to speak because she feared she would burst into tears, repeated the formula. “So shall it be, Master. So long as I have breath. And an arm to raise a spear.” Which remark sparked an immediate squabble between powerful personalities.
Smiling in spite of his sorrow at parting, Brother Candle tugged the donkey’s lead and took a step down the road to his future. First destination, Khaurene. After that, somewhere to reclaim Perfection. In essence, out of history, having shaped the minds of several people who would sculpt it with sharp steel.
23. Dreanger: At al-Qarn, in the Palace of the Kings
The old house slave, Gamel, strained under the weight of the burden he carried across the polished serpentine floor of the vast hall where Gordimer the Lion was holding the autumn assizes. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen was present, evidently having an interest in some case due to come before the Grand Marshal. Likewise, Kaif Karim Kaseem al-Bakr, who dozed on a chair nearby. He was there for a case with religious implications.
The slave had little time left in this hard vale. Decades ago he had been a fierce young Sha-lug. Time, luck, and an amazing knack for healing had conspired to rob him of a battlefield death. Sha-lug who grew old despite the endless wars had to earn their keep managing the work of the Palace.
Gamel was well known to Gordimer. Gamel had taught him the lance when he was a pup. The Marshal concluded the case at hand by ordering the defendant strangled for defiling the daughter of his sister.
Sentence was carried out on the spot. Gordimer then ordered the daughter stoned. Both corpses to be thrown to the crocodiles.
Then he sent two lifeguards to help the old man.
“Forget all that, Gamel. Your life has earned you the right to stand in the presence of the Marshal.”
Though not, perhaps, in that of the Kaif. If the Kaif were anything but an extension of the will of the Sha-lug, and awake. “What is this?”
It had to be critical if the old slave came here, now, during the height of the assizes.
“This box was given to me to bring to you. I was told it had to be delivered immediately.”
“And what is it?”
“I don’t know. But it’s been dripping cold water.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“General Nassim. Nassim Alizarin.”
“The Mountain? He’s here? In al-Qarn? Er-Rashal. I thought Nassim was dead.”
Shaken, the court sorcerer replied, “I was sure he was no longer among the living.”
“Let’s see what it is. You two. Bring that box here. Open it.”
Er-Rashal faded into himself while the lifeguards carried out instructions. Suddenly, he snapped, “Don’t open that!” An instant too late.
“What do we have?” Gordimer demanded. He glowered at the scores of supplicants and defendants, all of whom leaned toward the scene.
“A head. In melted ice.” The lifeguard lifted a severed head from the box by its hair. His companion retrieved a wooden tube about six inches long and an inch in diameter, covered with wax. He handed that to the Marshal.
Gordimer twisted an end off the cold tube, fished out a piece of paper. He asked er-Rashal, “What’s the matter?” The sorcerer stared at the head. “You’ve turned gray.” The Lion unrolled the paper. And read aloud, “‘To my lord the Grand Marshal of the Sha-lug, Gordimer, called the Lion, and to the sorcerer er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. Greetings. A gift. All that remains of the pagan sorcerer Rudenes Schneidel, by whose order my son Hagid was murdered. He was the first to pay. His partners in wickedness will follow.
“‘Nassim Alizarin, once a friend.
“‘In recollection of friendship, O Lion. A courtesy. Be warned. The storm from the north is rising. I have seen it with mine own eyes, and it is of your own construction. Nor even the Almighty Himself shall stand before it.’”
Gordimer the Lion closed his eyes. This was the voice of prophecy. Half a minute later, he said, “Clear the hall. The assizes will resume tomorrow morning.” He roamed his own mind till the hall fell quiet.
He opened his eyes. Er-Rashal was no longer present. The Kaif still slept. Gamel had retired. He addressed the lifeguard still holding the head by its hair. “Glaid. What do you make of this?”
“That General Nassim disappeared because he heard his son was murdered. But Hagid was supposedly among those Sha-lug lost in Calzir.”
“Where he was not supposed to have been.”
The lifeguard nodded. “There are evil rumors about what happened over there. About Sha-lug who were abandoned, denied the chance to board ships carrying survivors of the disaster away from Calzir.”
“Is that so? I haven’t heard anything like that. Sidiki. You look like you’re about to explode. If only you dared. Dare.”
“There is much that you do not hear, sitting here in the Palace, O Lion.” Sidiki carefully avoided the least implication of criticism, though the lifeguard complement were scandalized by the behavior of the Marshal in recent years and even those nearest him thought he had ordered those Sha-lug abandoned to the mercy of the Infidel because of their connection with Else Tage, the once-popular band leader whom Gordimer feared for no reason anyone could fathom.
In the end, the lifeguards, and those Sha-lug who spent much time around the Palace of the Kings, chose to blame all misfortune on the sorcerer er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen.
“Enlighten me.”
24. Brothe: At the End of the Day
After a week of loafing Piper Hecht started half days at the Castella. Nothing official had come out of Krois. But rumors ran hot and fierce. There would be another invasion of the Connec. For sure. To war against the Night. So staff work did go forward.
Ships were at sea, collecting the troops from Artecipea. Titus Consent made sure those men knew that it was Piper Hecht’s fault they were coming home. The Captain-General and Boniface VII had an understanding. The Patriarchy’s soldiers would be treated well, henceforth. With a big or else! implied.
Pinkus Ghort visited Anna’s house briefly. After losing to her at chess, he told Hecht, “Take care how forward you are about your soldiers, Pipe. You got people in the Collegium putting you on their shit lists just because you’re in a strong place.”
Hecht had seen the signs. Wherever three or more people got together somebody developed a need to drag somebody else down.
He was about to snap defiantly, arrogantly, but caught himself.
“What?” Ghort asked. “You don’t believe me?”
“No. I do. I’m having trouble believing me.”
Ghort gave Hecht that look he reserved for times when he had no clue what Hecht was talking about.
Hecht asked, “One of them wouldn’t be your boss, would it?”
“One of them would. He’s developed a hard-on for you.”
“He always had one. I wouldn’t be his running dog.”
; “He figures you owe him.”
“Really? Because he got us out of Plemenza?”
“Yeah. And some other stuff.”
“Despite the fact that he wouldn’t be alive if I hadn’t wakened him in the Ownvidian Knot.”
“I won’t make excuses for the man, Pipe. I’m just saying. I tell you this, he’s gonna push for enforcement of the quartering restrictions.”
Which Hecht had anticipated. Bronte Doneto being consul or not, the city senators would have gotten to that. Maybe just not as soon. No one not part of the Church hierarchy wanted the Patriarch’s soldiers stationed in the city.
“I think we’re in compliance already.” By sleight of hand. By means of a deal with the Brotherhood of War whereby the Brotherhood claimed those of Hecht’s men quartered in the Castella.
“Not with the spirit of the law. You could have five thousand armed veterans here inside four days. And a hell of a lot more handy once the rest get over from Artecipea.”
“And that’s a bad thing with the troubles you’re having here?”
“Hey, Pipe, I’m not trying to pick a fight. I’m just saying. And I’m wondering. What’s your pal Principatè Delari been up to? We haven’t seen hide nor hair in a rat’s age.”
“I don’t know. Why?” Hecht smiled at Vali and Bit’s daughter, Lila. The kids kept finding excuses to wander through. They were both curious and hoped that Ghort had brought treats. He did that sometimes.
Lila had recovered physically from the attack that had injured her and killed her mother but she was not yet over it inside. Though older and bigger, she had become Vali’s timid shadow. She seemed to have put her harsh early years aside, Anna described her as well mannered and industrious around the house, but remote. She was more bookish than Pella. And could bring Vali out of her shell.
Hecht had overheard the girls talking himself. Chattering, even, almost like kids who had enjoyed a normal childhood.
“Doneto is really interested,” Ghort said. “They aren’t good buddies. Were almost enemies back around the time the hippodrome fell down. But they patched it up somehow. They tolerate each other, now.”
“The way Delari tells it, it was all a misunderstanding. Too many people talking when they should have been listening ended up with them squabbling when they were both trying to get the same job done.
Which was to destroy the monster that was murdering people.”
Ghort frowned.
Anna said, “I don’t think they got it, Piper.”
“What? Of course they did. Principatè Delari …” He stopped. He could not explain.
“Then the monster’s little brother came round to take over the family business.”
Ghort was as taken aback as Hecht. “Anna?”
“The murders started up again. Like before.”
Hecht watched color drain from Ghort’s features. “Pipe. You said Delari dealt with it.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Did he produce a body?”
“Not for my benefit. And I wasn’t interested in seeing one. I was dodging assassins and getting ready for a war.”
“You need to find him and see what he thinks.”
“Your boss is a consul. And a pretty potent sorcerer.”
“You’re right. It would be his job. But you still might want to consult Delari.”
“I will. We’re supposed to have supper at his town house tomorrow night. I assume he’ll be there.”
“All right. When are you heading back to the Connec?”
“I haven’t been told. It’s all still rumors. Boniface … I have an abiding suspicion that the bureaucracy around the Patriarch is so dense and so tangled that even though the Patriarch is God’s dictator on earth he has to hack his way through a jungle before he can work His will.”
“You ask me, it’s just a bunch of assholes being obstructionist. He ought to have you clean them out.
There’s people at Krois belonging to families that have been underfoot there for fifteen generations. All of them take bribes from anybody with a piece of silver.”
A conversation about corruption in high places got the attention of all the kids, and Anna, too. Before Hecht could caution Ghort about little pitchers, someone knocked on the front door.
Anna told Pella, “See who that is.”
It was Titus Consent, Noë, and their brood.
Hecht said, “Titus, I completely forgot. Let me see the baby.” He had not yet met Avran.
Noë passed the infant over, but hovered. In case he decided to take a bite.
“No doubt who was this one’s daddy. Look at those eyes. Already calculating.” Hecht passed the baby back. His mother proceeded round the room, giving everyone the same opportunity. Except for Pinkus Ghort. Noë Consent was seriously nervous about Pinkus Ghort. Ghort was too outgoing. She was a mouse, the most timid woman Hecht had ever met. Only a powerful pride drove her here.
Hecht said, “Pinkus, I completely forgot about Titus. We have business at the foundry.”
Ghort faked a scowl and said, “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
Anna offered, “You can stay and play chess.”
“Sure. I love getting my head kicked in.”
“Shame on you, Pinkus Ghort. You win sometimes.” Anna indicated the children. “And none of these miscreants can survive ten moves.” Because they were children and could see no point to the game.
Though when she focused Vali could be a deadly opponent.
“I’ve got work of my own that I let slide so I could come down here to talk my best buddy into keeping on being careful.”
Titus said, “Noë could play you, Anna. She holds her own against me.”
Consent’s wife turned bright red. She murmured some sort of demurement and refused to meet the eyes of anyone but her baby.
Still insisting that Hecht remain cautious, Ghort let himself out. “Best buddy?” Consent asked.
“Not quite hyperbole. We’ve been friends a long time,” Hecht said. “Unfortunately, we find ourselves with different employers. I hope we never butt heads.”
“We should get moving.” Consent started to say something to his wife. Hyperactive toddler Sharone had vanished with Vali and Lila in hot pursuit. The baby was working his magic on Anna. Pella stared over Anna’s left shoulder, fascinated.
Hecht said, “Pella, come on with us.”
Anna shot him a startled, questioning look.
“He’s old enough.”
Having the lifeguards along frustrated Hecht. But they would not go away. Titus said, “Resign yourself.
You’re the most important man in Brothe. After Boniface VII. Bodyguards are the price you pay.”
Hecht vented his irritation with rambling nonsense about how Duarnenians never had to suffer this kind of crap. Pella walked alongside, nodding as though he agreed with every word.
Their destination was the workshop and foundry of the people who now manufactured all the firepowder and firepowder weapons for the Patriarchal army, a consortium of leading Devedian families.
Ironic, Hecht thought. If that was the proper word. Unbelievers manufactured the weapons and munitions by which the Chaldarean Patriarchy would enforce its will upon the Faithful.
“The Faithful?” Titus asked. “Mainly things of the Night will be affected by what these people make. You want to whip up on an Imperial town or one of the petty duchies, you’ll need to do it the old way.”
Hecht did not argue. But Titus was only mostly right. Drago Prosek and Kait Rhuk had a hundred ideas about how firepowder weaponry could change the ways wars were fought. Few involved the Instrumentalities of the Night.
Prosek and Rhuk, with a couple more falcon specialists, were there already when Hecht, Pella, and Consent reached the Krulik and Sneigon Special Manufactory. Consent told Hecht, “We’ve consolidated firepowder and falcon production here. These people are wonderfully cooperative in helping work out new ways to kill people. And things.”
“Especially things,” Shimeon Krulik told Hecht soon afterward. “You understand, we Devedians aren’t overwhelmed by a compulsion to make life easier for Brothen Episcopal Chaldareans.”
“Of course. But we have common interests.”
“Indeed. Crippling the Instrumentalities of the Night.”
Hecht nodded. Not sure of that at all.
Shimeon Krulik handed Hecht, Pella, and Titus off to a Moslei Sneigon. Sneigon was in charge of production and testing. He was a bent little man who would have been right at home in an ethnic joke.
But he was brilliant when it came to knowing what was going on inside his business.
“We’ve cut costs and improved effectiveness by nearly a hundred times this year, Captain-General.
Look. We drip molten iron through these star forms. It comes out cooled just enough so each dribble is a rough arrow shape two inches long. That falls into water. The sudden steam expands and distorts the dart’s surfaces.”
Sneigon produced a severely irregular iron dart just under two inches long. “We pack these in fine sand treated with a vegetable gum inside these wooden forms that are the same diameter as your falcons. The shock and heat of the exploding firepowder breaks up the charge.”
Sneigon showed them workers dipping the tips of the little arrows in molten silver. “We produce the darts fast. The bottleneck is silver application. Quantity doesn’t seem to matter with the silver. As long as it’s there. One tiny bit on the tip is enough.”
“We can save a lot on silver, then?”
“Fortunes. Given time, I think we’ll work out how to use a hundredth of the silver we’re using now. You’ll be spending way more for the iron, the firepowder, and, especially, the falcons themselves.”
Hecht was amused by how well Pella managed to fake an understanding of the discussion.
Hecht was fascinated by everything at Krulik and Sneigon. These people were determined to produce new and ever more amazing weapons for deployment in the struggle against the Tyranny of the Night.
The darts amazed him. Their battering by steam dramatically expanded their surface area, which meant that more iron would be brought into contact with whatever Instrumentality the missile hit.
