by Glen Cook
"Stop it, Piper. You're over that nonsense."
In a way, Hecht realized, he was. But dogma was a shield against reason. Faith was the way you defended yourself against real world evidence.
"It's hard."
"It's hard for everyone, boy. You spend three decades being fed half-truths and untruths by trusted elders who have an abiding interest in having those who come up behind them swallow the same nonsense that they imbibed when they were young. Then you begin to discover details of the landscape and horizon that faith just doesn't explain. You begin to grow suspicious. But you're part of a culture that just can't survive and prosper if it becomes infected by a widespread disbelief in the absurd."
Hecht could not restrain himself. "What in the hell are you babbling about, Your Grace?"
"I'm saying it's all bullshit, boy. The Episcopal Chaldarean Revelation. Everything Praman. Any other belief system you want to toss in. Every religion. The truth is, there are the Instrumentalities of the Night. As huge as God. As tiny as a water sprite. All neutral in fact. All wicked in declaration by true believers of other religions. The believers shape the Instrumentalities by believing. They create reality with their faith. Change the minds of the true believers and you change the face of God. That's what the first Pramans did. And the first Chaldareans. Before Aaron and the Founders, the Devedians found that they could no longer honor the harsh God of the Dainshaukin."
"You're saying it doesn't matter what I believe? That God wears whatever face I want? That any belief, however heretical, is as valid as any other?"
"An uncomfortable way of stating it. But nearer the truth than most of my profession would admit."
Hecht was honest. "I need the foundation."
"Most people do. It's essential to their spiritual well-being. They need to be a brick in a great edifice to feel like they have any meaning."
"I'm happy the way I am."
"Fine. Don't let it blind you when the claws of the Night are pulling you down. Remember: Neither your God nor mine showed up at al-Khazen. But gods were there."
The Godslayer reflected: Who but the God Who Is God could have inspired him to load that falcon with silver that night in Esther's Wood?
Cloven Februaren revealed another thin smile suggesting he knew what Hecht was thinking. He said, "I'm not shilling for the Adversary, Piper. I'm trying to waken what small spark of reason you have, somewhere. You need to keep a watch for things that aren't what they seem."
"Yes." With a touch of sarcasm.
"For example. The amulet you wear. Useful, yes? Saved your life several times, no doubt. But a huge frustration, now, to your great enemy. Who no doubt curses himself daily for having given it to you. In the form that he did."
"Sir?"
"Relax. No one else has the skills to detect it. Though Bronte Doneto and Muno surely suspect there's more to you than meets the eye."
Hecht said nothing. He pursed his lips. He would gut it out.
"I think er-Rashal discovered something distressing after he armed you with the amulet and sent you our way. Maybe from the mummies. Maybe because of what happened in Esther's Wood. Suddenly, you were more valuable dead than alive. But he can't strike directly because of the amulet. His hirelings failed the straightforward attempt in Runch…"
The old man was thinking out loud, now. "Failure in Sonsa. Not er-Rashal's fault. Grade had been warned there might be a person of interest aboard ship, but that wasn't why he was traveling. Failure in the Ownvidian Knot. Substantial failure by Starkden and al-Seyhan, here and at al-Khazen. Failures by the soultaken and even by He Who Harkens to the Sound. And numerous failures since. It's almost as if you have a guardian Instrumentality."
"Thank you."
"I nearly failed with the firepowder cart. Can I be lucky forever? The amulet. I know what a boon it's been. But it's coming time for it to go. It's how they track you."
Hecht had begun to nod. Exhaustion was wearing him down.
The old man told him, "I'll replace it with something better. As soon as I can. Does it cause much pain?"
He was too tired to dissemble. "When something big gets close, it's bad."
"I'll fix that. Er-Rashal isn't half the sorcerer he thinks he is. Sit back down. Let me see your wrist." Februaren dropped down cross-legged, took Hecht's left hand, ran fingers lightly over his wrist. "The madman was cleverer than I thought. This is difficult to sense, even knowing it's there."
"Ouch!"
"Cleverer. That stung me, too. And here's the problem. He'll know the instant it comes off. And he'll know where. That offers us a strategic opportunity to switch it out in the right place, at the right time, and panic someone."
"Sir, I don't feel like being clever. I feel like cutting throats to get a message out. Leave my people alone."
"I understand your anger. Your frustration. How many of my family have I seen victimized? But people who behave that way aren't often persuaded. They haven't yet gotten the message when you start shoveling dirt into their faces."
"I'm in a mood to fill a big hole." "If we must, we will. There's one more thing. The ring."
"Uh… Ring?"
"The ring accidentally given you by Principate Bruglioni. The ring of forgetfulness. Where is it?"
Wow. He had forgotten it. That quickly. "I gave it to Principate Delari to study. Why?"
"It's of no consequence right now. But it could be, someday. If it's the ring I think it is."
"Grinling?"
"Excuse me?"
"A ferociously nasty and treacherous magical ring in northern mythology. Shares some characteristics with this one."
"Not that ring. Which probably does exist. Buried under the ice, one hopes. That sort of artifact can be crafted only with the connivance of the Instrumentalities of the Night. But it exists independently afterward. If Grinling, or any number of mystic swords, hammers, lassos, runespears, and whatnot, failed to get folded up inside the pocket reality forged by the rebel soultaken, we'll have to deal with them as soon as they seduce a suitably foul character." Hecht stared.
"All real, remember. There is no God but God. And ten thousand other beings equally wicked." Sarcastically.
"Your Grace!"
"Spend another century on this vale. Or just one decade inside the Construct. You'll see this world through new eyes.
If you retain any religious inclinations at all, it'll be to buy into the dualist heresies of the Maysaleans and their theological cousins."
"I know nothing about the Maysalean Heresy, Your Grace. But I'm sure it won't be long before I get to see some heretics up close."
"It won't be long, no. Get that ring back. And keep it close."
Groggy, drained, Hecht went down to the street. One of his lifeguards helped him mount the horse they had brought. The sergeant in charge glowered but did not chide him for wandering off yesterday.
The Castella was in a ferment. Hecht did not notice. Colonel Smolens observed, "You seem distracted."
"Uh. To put it mildly."
"Anything you want to talk about?"
"It's family."
"Woman trouble." Buhle Smolens had off days related to conflicts with his wife.
"Yeah." That was good enough. "What's on the table?"
"Rumors running hot and heavy this morning."
"Worse than usual?"
"Way. And Consent says Dominagua, Stiluri, Vangelis, and some others mean to try to slide out from under their obligations if we call up their field contingents."
"We knew there'd be problems with Dromedan and the Patriarchal States in Ormienden. The heretics have a strong influence there. Brother Sedlakova. Good morning."
Clej Sedlakova observed, "Convenient as the dualists are, blame really comes from a deep disinclination to do the Patriarch's bidding."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they think Sublime is out of his head. Meaning the Maysalean Heresy doesn't bother them enough to make them kill their cousins and neighbors over it."
&nb
sp; Titus Consent invited himself into the conversation. "The Patriarch is the problem. In any choice you can count on him to pick the stupider option."
"Excuse me?" Bronte Doneto snapped. "What did you say?"
How had Doneto managed to sneak up? Hecht said, "The man stated a plain fact, Your Grace. Reporting what people in the Patriarchal States are thinking. And elsewhere, as well, I expect."
Sedlakova's credentials as an Episcopal Chaldarean were beyond challenge. "There are hundreds of bishops and princes who pray daily that God will call His infallible servant home, Your Grace. That's truth. It won't go away if we just wish hard enough."
The Principate scowled but dropped it. He was not blind to his cousin's ever-expanding unpopularity. "Captain-General, I need you to come with me."
Two of Hecht's bodyguards had followed him into the planning center. They were not about to let him get away again. They closed in. Hecht said, "We can trust His Grace." And what good could they do if that were untrue?
Doneto started walking. Hecht followed. The Principate asked, "Are they all so disdainful of my cousin? Are you?"
"They are, in the main. I try to reserve judgment. I've seen the man only a few times, never to talk to."
"Not that you know. Keep up. There isn't much time."
"I'm still suffering the effects of that explosion."
Doneto went into regions of the Castella Hecht had not seen before. Down and into passageways obviously seldom used: cold, damp, creepy, and lighted only by clay lamps carried by the visitors. Doneto said, "This isn't pleasant down here. I always expect to bump into a minotaur or some other monster out of the old myths."
"It's the kind of place where I'd expect to meet all the Instrumentalities of the Night," Hecht puffed. "Where are we going?"
"Krois."
Hecht said no more. He made sure he could see Principate Doneto all the time. Not that he expected anything. Not here and now.
Underground. Again. This time under the Teragi. Imagining all that water overhead dampened his spirit.
"Oppressive, isn't it?" Doneto asked as he started up a long stairway. It curved away to the right, opposite the direction customary inside fortresses. Meaning the architects had been thinking about retreat downward rather than up.
Hecht's thoughts seldom wandered from his calling. He could not look at a hill and appreciate it as a hill. His mind instantly began working out how to both defend and assault that particular piece of ground. The same with any building, inside or out. And this one, so safe on its island, was vulnerable through its escape routes.
He did not mention that.
There were sentries. Two Patriarchal lifeguards posted at the archway where the stairwell debouched in a hidden alcove. Hecht did not disdain Sublime's protectors as soldiers. They had performed well when the Calziran pirates attacked the Mother City.
They expected Principate Doneto. They greeted him by name but did not let him past without examination. The Captain-General suffered an even closer search. Meanwhile, additional lifeguards arrived, summoned in no obvious way.
Hecht carried one weapon, a sixteen-inch blade. The Patriarchals did not take it. As he and Doneto followed an escort onward, Hecht asked, "What was the point of that?"
"To make sure we aren't smuggling some Night-inspired piece of mischief in."
Hecht scratched his left wrist. They had missed his amulet.
Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen was skilled indeed.
Hecht was startled. Honario Benedocto, using the reign name Sublime V, appeared to be suffering from a wasting disease. He was pale, sweating, and shaky. His clothing appeared unchanged for days. He smelled bad. He was barely recognizable as Honario Benedocto. And his hangers-on did not appear to care.
Hecht had seen the man seyeral times, even exchanging a few words informally. This man was a shadow of the one he recalled.
Was he dying?
Hecht went to his knees, touched his head to the cold stone floor. Doneto had rehearsed him. The forms were little different from those one showed before the Kaif of al-Minphet. Doneto repeated it all, in a more restrained style.
The Patriarch's cronies circled like flies round a cow patty. The Captain-General did not recognize any of them.
"Get up," Sublime barked. "I'm not having a good day. I don't want to waste time on frivolities."
The flies stopped circling, startled.
Hecht rose but kept his head bowed. "At your service, Father."
"Can you do it?"
"Do what, Your Worship?"
"Scour the End of Connec. Rid me of this heretical pestilence calling themselves Seekers After Light. I'm in torment. I'm in hell on earth. I can't sleep. I can't keep food down. These cackling old hens stall and delay and put me off… It's time God's Will was done." The little man shuddered, as though stricken by a sudden chill.
Hecht signed himself, eyes still downcast. "God's Will be done."
Sublime half stumbled backward. He settled into a massive chair that seemed to swallow him. The awe of his position did not illuminate him whatsoever.
After a half minute of silence, Sublime shouted, "All of you! Leave us! I wish to consult the Captain-General privately."
Sublime's cronies and handlers and Principate Doneto alike protested.
"You will leave us!" Screeching like a whore cheated of her fee.
The hangers-on went, Bronte Doneto last. Giving Hecht his hardest scowl.
Sublime observed, "They hate to leave me alone."
Hecht nodded. That was obvious.
"They're afraid an unapproved thought might creep from your mind to mine."
"Your Worship?"
"Forget my title. I'm Honario Benedocto for the next few minutes. Tell me what you really think about the crusade against the Connecten heretics. Your Patriarch is about to preach it."
Right. He was going to shoot the bull with this man like they were private soldiers at a campfire dissecting the shortcomings of those who made decisions for them. He had been through this before. The friendship would wither the instant he said one word honestly.
"I think it's risky. I haven't gotten any solid intelligence out of the Connec. What little I do get suggests a stronger local strain of nationalism than outsiders perceive."
"Meaning?"
"That even the most devout adherents of the Church don't like outside meddlers. Due mainly to a plague of incompetent, corrupt, foreign bishops."
Honario Benedocto scowled fiercely. The air was filled with noise that he did not want to hear. He heard his judgment being questioned.
Hecht said, "When the command comes I'll do everything I can to turn the Maysalean Heresy into an odd memory. But you have to understand that Connectens are stubborn people. They're fiercely resentful of foreign intrusion. My spies say Connectens of every philosophical camp are fighting the refugees and Arnhander freebooters plaguing the province right now."
"I hear the same. While my legates are treated with scorn and dishonor. I don't understand it."
"Your Worship, only your advisers ever see you. The lies of your enemies take root because Chaldarean folk never see you. They don't know the real Sublime."
Hecht spouted nonsense in order to avoid being critical. Leaving the Patriarch with room to assume that all shortcomings had to be someone else's fault.
Hecht had no interest in giving Sublime tools that would make him a more realistic leader. In an actual campaign in the Connec he would be only as successful as he must to continue directing the Patriarchal armed forces. If Sublime survived to proclaim it, Hecht wanted to be in command when the crusade against Dreanger and the Holy Lands began.
"Can you expunge the Maysalean Heresy, Captain-General?" Sublime asked again.
"I will. It'll be difficult, though. King Peter found pagans still active on Shippen during the Calziran Crusade. After a thousand years of Chaldarean and Praman rule."
The Patriarch considered him in silence so long Hecht began to grow nervous. "May God forgive me
," Sublime said. "But if they resist, kill them all. Without exception. God will know his own."
"Is this the time we've awaited? Are you directing me to act?"
"The wait is over. I have decided. I have no more patience with the Connec. Rid it of heresy. Bring the rebellious Episcopals to heel. I'll arm you with all the warrants, documents, and powers you require."
"As you command, Your Worship, so shall it be done. But the tool I need most desperately is specie."
"Come here, Captain-General. Pray with me."
Hecht followed instructions. And wondered what the Sha-lug would think, could they see him kneeling beside the Adversary's very viceroy in the Realm of War.
As he mumbled the rote formulas he focused on what needed doing before he took Sublime's army into the field.
Crash preparation consumed twenty-two days. Hecht got little sleep. And enjoyed more disappointments than successes. Despite Patriarchal promises.
There was little crusade enthusiasm outside Krois.
"You had a private audience?" Pinkus Ghort asked. Ghort was underfoot all the time, now. He had been appointed commander of the field brigade Brothe would contribute to the Patriarchal army. Principate Doneto insisted.
"I sure did. We prayed together, shared a meal, talked and talked and talked."
"What did you think? What's he really like?"
"He's crazy." They were outside and alone. He could speak freely. Within limits. "It was like being with three people who live inside the same body. He's inconstant. Excited for a while, then depressed. Convinced he wants a complete bloodbath of a war-till he decides thinking it's all a horrible idea foisted on him by his cronies. Only he won't name names."
"What I figured. Fits the rumors. Guess what? Bronte Doneto invited himself along."
Unsurprised, Hecht asked, "Think he misses the Connec?"
"Could be. He had such a wonderful time last time he went."
"I'm not thrilled." An impossible and stupid war was bad enough. Having the Patriarch's cousin perched on his shoulder could only make it worse.
Particularly if, as Principate Delari believed, that cousin was up to his nostrils in some grand scheme of his own.
