by Glen Cook
"A big amber egg. With shot from the falcon trapped inside."
"Interesting."
"You know what it is? What it means?"
"No. Suppose I intercept those two Principates and redirect their curiosity." Instead, though, he tipped his head slightly and scanned the blackened hillside. "What?"
"Checking for Grandfather. These two should be too young to recognize him. But why take a chance?"
Hecht had the feeling things were happening that he could not see. Too often he felt like a blind beggar in the streets of intrigue. "All right. Here comes Kait Rhuk, too. I can't imagine how he survived." The engine of his mind was turning again, as though fresh lard had been thrown on its wooden roller bearings.
There would be a lot to do. First and foremost, a muster to see who had survived and who had not.
Principate Delari headed toward his brethren from the Collegium. Hecht went to meet Rhuk.
"Mr. Rhuk. I can't say as I've ever seen such a demonstration of courage."
Rhuk had a heavy accent. His speech was hard to follow. "I don't know, sir. Meaning, I didn't know. Maybe did I before, I wouldn't a even come set up, let alone stood my ground and kept firing."
"Everyone probably feels that way."
"Yer old sorcerer, there. He have any idea what we just run into?"
"I'm not sure I believe him. A son of the Adversary. Trying to enter the world the way a butterfly does." Most people had observed the cycle of the butterfly as children.
"Interesting times," Rhuk understated.
"You all right?"
"Got a few splinters from a firepowder keg that went up. Otherwise, I'm fine. God loves me. I fell in a hole just in time."
"If you can operate, then, I declare you lord of the falcon artillery. You're in charge of finding out how bad we were hurt. How many weapons survived? How much ammunition? We need work parties to recover as much spent shot as we can."
Rhuk scowled.
"Success never goes unpunished in this army, Mr. Rhuk. I survived, too. So I get to do without sleep at all for the next few days."
Rhuk managed a weak grin before he bowed slightly and headed back downhill. Hecht was surprised to see how many artillerymen had survived.
That was the way, though, usually. Even the most horrific events turned out less terrible than the mind anticipated.
He thought he caught the Ninth Unknown in the corner of his eye but saw nothing when he looked. What was the old man up to now?
He had chosen his officers well. Despite the magnitude of the event, they had begun to restore order. The commanders of the smaller units seemed to be gathering their men for a head count-even before his order reached them.
What could he do about what might lie in the gash?
He moved a few steps farther into the black at the crack's rim. The soil crunched underfoot. A paper-thin layer had melted and hardened. The earth beneath was dryer than desert dust. And those few steps were all he could take before the residual heat became too intense.
He spied Madouc, a hundred yards toward the mill, in a ferocious sulk. "I forgot again. They'll have to kill me so I'll start staying where they can protect me." No excuse to avoid it, he marched down and apologized.
"I'm going to put bells on you. Sir."
The man was truly, richly angry.
Hecht was not contrite. If the bodyguards had been around he would not have gotten near the god grub.
Officers' call was over. Order had been restored. But morale was severely stressed. None of the men believed the monster had appeared coincidentally. Even long-service professional soldiers did not want to face surprises of that sort.
Hecht could neither argue nor reassure. He feared he had been targeted again. And he had survived by using the weapon the Instrumentalities so feared.
Lessons learned. On all sides.
This had been a close run, with ten falcons barking. It would take bigger weapons to fell… Don't even think that. Pray, instead, for Drago Prosek, who would have only two weapons when he met the monster in the Jagos.
The staff meeting following officers' call was glum. No one had much to say. Titus tossed in, "The news from Brothe isn't good. Apparently we're not sitting still because of negotiations but because the Patriarch is deathly sick."
Hecht figured his staff began rooting for Death. "Who might replace him? How would that affect us?"
Not something anyone had thought about. Including the Collegium. Sublime was young.
"We're a forward-thinking lot, aren't we?" Hecht said. "Get some sleep. We're looking at long days ahead. Titus. Stay. You know you don't need to sleep. You're not old enough."
"Yes, sir." Resigned.
Once the others cleared off, excepting Principate Delari, Hecht asked, "What became of our assassin from Viscesment? I didn't get to question him."
"Funny you should ask. He had the great misfortune to be the only rear echelon fellow to suffer a fatal event during the excitement."
"Titus."
"Somebody cut the asshole's throat."
"Principate? Wasn't he in your keeping?"
"In theory." Delari was angry. "I'd better check on Bit and her daughter. And the hostages. You'll find them very useful soon."
Consent told Hecht, "You don't seem surprised."
"I don't have much capacity for surprise left, Titus."
The Principates all showed up next morning, Delari arriving first. He presented a heavy ring, its inside stamped with the birdlike trident. "Not much else to say. If he hadn't been beaten half to death I'd let Armand find some other benefactor."
"Bit and the others?"
"Bit is dead. The daughter is worse off than Armand. There was a lot of blood." After a pause, "The boy did put up a fight. He marked them. They'll be found and dealt with. The hostages weren't harmed."
Gorin Linczski and Gervase Saluda arrived. They brought messages from the Collegium. In a shaky hand Hugo Mongoz wanted to know what the hell Hecht was doing, attacking Sonsa? That was the oldest letter. Another, from the Patriarch himself, in a hand shakier still, was enthusiastic about the capture of Viscesment and the Pretender Patriarch, but otherwise lacked substance.
Letters from various Principates ranged across a spectrum of attitudes. Hecht read them out of courtesy only.
Then Bronte Doneto appeared. "I didn't know you were back," Hecht said.
"I got in late. I should've left sooner. I missed the ruckus."
"Be happy you did. What happened with Immaculate?"
Doneto's story did not vary from what Hecht already knew. In the end, Immaculate II was dead. By the hand of someone not serving the interest of the Brothen Episcopal Church.
"I came back, though," Doneto explained, "because of a letter from my cousin. Spirited out of Krois, to me, because 'they' were censoring all his messages to you." Doneto handed Hecht a letter. The handwriting was less shaky than what he had seen earlier. It was dated before the missive about Viscesment.
"The sneaking out took a while."
"Yes. One of his sons finally managed."
"One of his sons."
"He has three. It isn't common knowledge."
For sure. Though Honario Benedocto had had a reputation for whoring around in his youth.
"I guess that's irrelevant."
"I'd say so."
"I'm supposed to have acted on this a month ago."
"It's never too late, Captain-General. My cousin understands that messages go astray. It's why we go redundant with important communiques. When we can."
Hecht was in no mood for low-level philosophical musings.
The letter had included the orders he had been awaiting, hoping they would not come. Had they arrived in a timely manner Antieux would be invested now. Likewise, Sheavenalle. The main force would be giving Castreresone attention it did not want. And Antieux would not have had time to evacuate so many of its most valuable people.
Persons with skills were resources, too, and prize commodities f
or the successful conqueror. Which was why Devedians could be found all round the marges of the Mother Sea.
Hecht reflected briefly on the fact that even the children of slaves were not loath to participate in the slave trade.
And the grandfather of the grandfather of a slave was not loath to punish slavers for their daring cruelty. Nor cared that he himself must have slaves amongst his own ancestors. Everyone did. Somewhere, far enough back.
Piper Hecht was angry about the tardiness of the go order. He was excited about the challenges, real and potential. All but a tiny portion of him had become Piper Hecht, Captain-General of the Brothen Episcopal Chaldarean Church.
"Hecht?"
"Sorry, Your Grace. I was eye to eye with the fact that I'm going to make history. The kind remembered long after the misery ends."
Doneto paused. As though this unconsidered thought had an impact now that it hung there in front of his face. "Real history. You could be right. When this army crosses the Dechear it will step into the rolls of history as far more than a footnote about a skirmish. A successful Connecten Crusade will define the future of the west."
"True. But there's no time to speculate about futures quickened or aborted by what we do. I'm a month behind, now." He wondered if the timing of the belated war order had more to do with hidden agendas than with difficulties in transit.
Hecht shouted downstairs. He wanted a staff meeting immediately, with an officers' assembly to follow. And he wanted the ferrying of troops increased.
Despite having received no orders earlier, Hecht had sent three thousand men across already. Their presence yonder would simplify the crossing for the rest. There would be no resistance.
An embarrassed Pinkus Ghort admitted, "They were my men, Pipe. Again." He meant the murderers, who had been betrayed by wounds they could not explain, then identified by Osa Stile and Bit's daughter.
"I assume you'll protect them till they've been questioned?"
"Yes, Pipe. I'm doing it!"
Hecht's anger subsided. Some. "Have they said anything yet?"
"Only that they don't know anything. They got offered a good bounty. The guy who hired them took off when he saw that the killings hadn't taken. His name was Ingram Five. Him and his brother Anton crossed the river right after the attacks. They didn't report in over there. They just kept on going."
"This stuff keeps happening. And we keep reacting. How do we get ahead of it, Pinkus? These villains don't work in a vacuum. People have to notice them. How do we get them to warn us before somebody gets killed?"
"You're on your way. The soldiers are more loyal to you than to Sublime. Give them a victory and you'll have them. They'll winkle out the villains on their own."
Armies deified successful commanders. Too many commanders let that go to their heads.
"I want to take it back to the source. Smash some skulls there. Throw some people in a fire pit. Be an altogether unpleasant guest."
"We'd need to invade Artecipea first. The threads all lead there."
Pinkus Ghort seldom seemed thoughtful. This was one of those rare times. "That don't make sense, Pipe. None of us ever had nothing to do with nobody from out there. I don't think. You? So how come somebody from there is hot to put you under?"
"I ask myself all the time. All I can come up with is, the Instrumentalities of the Night don't love us."
"Sure you ain't getting a bit of a swelled head, there?"
"Just brainstorming. Based on what Principate Delari has said. I might do something someday that will inconvenience the Instrumentalities of the Night. So they want to stamp me out before I can."
Hecht believed he had done what the Night feared already. He had turned up a tool that mortal men could use to end the Tyranny of the Night. Whatever the Night and its black agents did now would be throwing the bones with futility. The djinn was out of the lamp. And the lamp had melted down.
Hecht asked, "Has Bo finished?" Bo Biogna and his select thugs had been punished for their good work by being given the chance to collect materials of interest from the crack where the god grub surfaced. A gash vigorously sealed off by troops chosen by Titus Consent. Who were watched in turn by Brotherhood members supervised by Redfearn Bechter.
"He isn't finding any more amber pieces. His guys are still sifting pellets out of the dirt. They have to break the layer of glass to get it. They aren't finding enough silver to justify the work, though. Most of it burned up killing that thing."
Ghort drifted off into awed recollections. Then he shuddered. "Interesting times, Pipe. Interesting times."
Hecht sighed. "They are. But we're eating regular. I have a job for you. If you want it."
"You know me. A glutton for punishment. What?"
"Can you keep a secret?"
"It's possible. Just don't tell me anything I can sell for enough to retire on."
"This might be that."
"So. What've you got?"
"I want you to recruit men from the levies willing to stay on for pay."
"Not hard to come up with those. If you can pay them."
Hecht smiled tightly. "I can."
"How?"
"That's the secret you need to keep."
"You talked me into it, you sweet-talker."
"Smolens was in the right place at the right time. He picked off the latest specie shipment from Salpeno."
Ghort looked startled, then astonished. Then amused. "You're going to rob your own boss?"
"Isn't the money supposed to support this army? If I let it travel down to Brothe, then come back, how much will disappear along the way?"
"Most, probably."
"There you go. So, how about you take over the volunteer brigade?"
"We are going over the river, right?"
"Soon."
"I'm in. Bound to be something left worth stealing over yonder."
"Could be. You'll go to Antieux. You and Doneto. With Clej Sedlakova in charge. Keep Doneto from going totally berserk."
Ghort raised a questioning eyebrow. Hecht noted the gray there.
"I'd rather not be remembered for turning the Connec into a desert."
Ghort gave him a narrow look. "What'll you be doing?"
"I'm going to Castreresone. Smolens will try to take Sheavenalle."
"Castreresone? Even after Roger died?"
"Yes." It could not hurt to have Sublime V and King Peter nose to nose and fuming. "The confusion there should work to our advantage."
"Wish we'd gotten going sooner."
"So do I. So do I. Go on. You've got work to do."
As Ghort neared the head of the stairs, Hecht asked, "Is that daughter of Bit's still healthy?"
"She's recovering."
"Keep her safe. When you have trustworthy men going back to the city, send her along. I'll warn Anna that she's coming."
"You think you ought to ask her first?"
Hecht shrugged. "I should." But… "Principate Delari will want his plaything to go back, too. If he can travel." He would love to have Osa Stile out of the way.
"That kid gives me the creeps, Pipe. They's something stone wrong with him."
"Then you better be careful he doesn't sneak into your tent."
"Not funny, Pipe."
Hecht did wonder, sometimes. Ghort seldom talked about women. That was not right in a soldier.
The Captain-General watched the marching troops from a hillside that had been a vineyard once. "Pinkus would be disappointed if he knew," he told Cloven Februaren. The old man had turned up while Hecht was observing the force Sedlakova, Ghort, and Doneto were taking to Antieux. The Captain-General's lifeguards had yet to notice Februaren. The old man showed no sign of the pummeling he had suffered.
"The vines? Yes. I see. Those men seem healthy, trained, and modestly motivated. You've done well."
"Really? You walked up and none of these men noticed."
"Not to worry. They'll frustrate mundane dangers. I'll do the same to the Night."
"You we
ren't much help with that worm."
"You weren't paying attention, then. Why did it surface where it did, instead of under your mill?"
Hecht did not know. He shrugged.
"It surfaced where your old amulet was being worn by an unlucky goat. Somewhere, there's a very worried Dreangerean sorcerer." The old man chuckled.
Hecht did not know how to respond. Februaren had no reason to sidle round the truth.
The Ninth Unknown said, "You recall me saying that fools might ally with the elder Instrumentalities in hopes of gaining power and favor?" He surveyed Hecht's lifeguards. They were getting nervous.
"Yes."
"Those fools already exist. The trident ring is their emblem. Rudenes Schneidel is their western chieftain. Lieutenant to er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. Who seems to be dedicated to restoring the Dreangerean gods of antiquity."
Hecht was not surprised. "There was always a suspicion that the old religion hadn't been expunged. Er-Rashal was marginal in his devotions at best, but too useful to punish."
"Your brothers in the Sha-lug band have worked this out for themselves. The man Bone has returned to Dreanger. He hopes to warn Gordimer by going through Nassim Alizarin."
"If Bone convinces the Mountain I foresee a difficult life for the Rascal."
"Don't forget what er-Rashal is."
The bodyguards heard ghost voices. They talked about it. But they could not see the old man, nor did they note their charge holding a conversation with something invisible.
"No doubt. They're getting nervous. You need to go soon."
"Yes."
"What did er-Rashal want with those mummies?"
"I don't know. But no good will come of him having them. Maybe he wants to conjure the shades of the sorcerers they used to be. Though he'd have to be atop one of the Wells of Ihrian to have enough power. And he'd need the support of the Night. Unless he prepared with extreme discretion, then moved too fast for the Instrumentalities to notice."
"Not likely, if they see threats two hundred years ahead."
"He could be in for a painful surprise. If he hasn't made the right alliances inside the Night." But that was the story of most sorcerers, including those who had infested Andesqueluz. They began to overvalue themselves and underrate the Instrumentalities of the Night. Then the Night devoured them.
