Working God's Mischief (Instrumentalities of the Night)

by Cook, Glen

  Less formally, the Empress said, “We understand that you are anxious to see to the welfare of your soldiers and would like a chance to shake the road off, Lord Arnmigal. Now that we have satisfied our eyes we will not keep you. Captain Drear will arrange an informal audience for tomorrow. We will expect grand tales of adventure. Anselin of Menand, a suitable suite has been prepared for you.”

  Hecht caught a speculative look in Daedel’s eye as she considered that handsome youth.

  He wished her luck but thought she might be disappointed.

  Anselin of Menand had proven himself a formidable warrior in the Holy Lands. He had revealed unexpected skills as a commander. He was tall, blond, pretty, played the lute and had a good singing voice. He was the perfect knight in every way and everywhere but in the tilts of love.

  Not once had his name been coupled with that of a woman, neither high nor low. Which left Hecht the more puzzled by his own jealousy.

  Ah. It was not Anselin but what Anselin represented that sparked the emotion. The attraction between him and Helspeth remained, as powerful as ever, but now she was Empress. Socially, she was further away.

  Back in the street, Pella asked, “Dad, how come the Empress was so rude? I thought you were friends.”

  Hecht settled into his saddle. Snowflakes wobbled into the light of lanterns and torches. “She was being the Empress Helspeth, not Helspeth Ege. She can’t be just a person anymore, she has to be the personification of the state. She wasn’t trying to be rude.”

  “I think it stinks.”

  Lord Arnmigal, Commander of the Righteous, did not disagree. “You’re right, Pella. That shouldn’t make a difference. But it always does. It’s the way the world works. It’s the way people are made.”

  * * *

  Alten Weinberg remained Alten Weinberg, even in winter. Those who did not return to their estates remained doggedly political and contrived to cross paths with the Commander of the Righteous. Lord Arnmigal gained a reputation for being short-tempered. He did manage to deal respectfully with Archbishop Brion, Katrin’s uncles, Rodolof Schmeimder, Arnhand’s ambassador, and Algres Drear. The pressure of Imperial politics was severe. The role of Commander of the Righteous had accumulated considerable gravitas. The princes of the west were sending commissions, observers, representatives, or ambassadors to look into possibly joining the Enterprise of Peace and Faith—while much of the Grail Empire nobility insisted the crusade was a smoke screen masking the tyrannical ambitions of the Empress and her Commander of the Righteous.

  Lord Arnmigal sometimes roared in frustration but as often was as thrilled as a boy who had successfully executed an amazing prank.

  He had advantages enjoyed by no warlord before him.

  * * *

  Hecht entered Helspeth’s quiet room warily. The customary band had gathered beforehand: the Archbishop, the Graf fon Rhejm, Ferris Renfrow, Lady Hilda, and the Grand Duke. The Empress had, in Hecht’s absence, won that crusty old warrior over.

  She could be a charmer when she tried.

  Renfrow shut the door. Captain Drear did not remain inside.

  Lady Hilda began serving coffee. The smuggling routes had recovered. She was brisk today, absent all flirt. She looked worn out. Hecht lifted an inquiring eyebrow when she was behind the Archbishop. She responded with a weak shrug.

  Renfrow, checking the room’s integrity, caught the exchange. “Our lady paladin of the night tilts has been defeated.” For which Lady Hilda gave him a look braided of purest venom.

  Hecht observed, “The good Anselin has the makings of a perfect monk.”

  “The makings of a Perfect,” Renfrow said. “I believe he could resist the blandishments of…” He stopped but Hecht understood. Anselin would remain indifferent even to Eavijne, Sheaf, or Aldi. “I have a final test in mind.”

  Helspeth said, “Anselin is the perfect guest. By now news of his presence here will have reached Salpeno. He plans to deliver some exquisite pain once he gets back there.”

  All eyes turned her way. “I paraphrased something he told the Compte de Longé. Lord Arnmigal. You’re the reason we’re here. I want to hear every smelly, sordid detail of your romp through Hovacol. My spies tell me strange things happened.”

  Hecht glanced at Renfrow. Renfrow had not been out there. “Lord Arnmigal? You seem distracted.”

  “I’m tired, Majesty.”

  “A feeble excuse. Tell the story. And don’t leave stuff out.”

  He told most everything, failing only to explain that the Shining Ones—never mentioned by name—were Instrumentalities from olden times now serving the Commander of the Righteous on a lifetime indenture.

  Archbishop Brion would have had another stroke.

  Brion had yet to say anything. In fact, there was a conspiracy of silence between him, the Grand Duke, and the Graf fon Rhejm. They asked nothing and offered nothing.

  Hecht talked. Helspeth asked questions. Indeed, she pecked at every detail, sure he was holding back.

  Renfrow enjoyed his discomfiture. The spymaster sipped coffee, smiled occasionally, and left Hecht wondering what Renfrow had actually reported.

  Helspeth kept after the duel with Stain. Once he finished, she said, “I’ve heard the story three times, now. It seems like no two people saw the same thing.”

  “Witnesses to an emotional situation seldom agree about the details, Majesty,” Archbishop Brion observed. “Reports I’ve heard made it sound like His Lordship had a guardian angel.” The edge to his voice, nearly hysterical, implied that Brion knew any such angel must be one of the fallen.

  Hecht said, “If you said that right after, I might have agreed. Things did get strange. But if anything is watching over me it isn’t for my sake.”

  With amused admiration, Renfrow said, “Masterful, Lord Arnmigal. Masterful.”

  Helspeth demanded, “Are you two playing a game without including the rest of us?”

  Renfrow replied, “Every day, Majesty. Every day. But it’s just boys will be boys. Now, unusual as Lord Arnmigal’s adventure was, there are other things that need attention. For example, the question of what to do with Anselin of Menand.”

  Helspeth said, “I foresee serious concessions from Arnhand in exchange for his return.”

  The Grand Duke grumbled, “Sell the pretty shit.”

  “Milord?”

  “Do what that absurd Stain meant to do. Put him on the auction block. Isabeth of Navaya might cede Calzir and Shippen in exchange. The Connectens, if they had anything, would beggar themselves to claim him. And his mother might be forced to finance your Enterprise. Make her pay. Make her pay big. Keep her paying till she bankrupts Arnhand.”

  Renfrow observed, “Anselin is worth a fortune in political capital just sitting here doing nothing, too.”

  Helspeth said, “I want your thoughts, Ferris, but first I have a question for Lord Arnmigal, which is, do we still have issues enough with Bronte Doneto to demand that his person be part of Anselin’s ransom?”

  “Entirely your decision, Majesty. You know what your sister would want.”

  “Yes. All right. Ferris.”

  “If you’ll reflect, Majesty, I’m sure you’ll see a number of ways that Anselin could be of more value held here.”

  Hecht observed, “The Compte de Longé seems almost hysterical lately.”

  Helspeth said, “He’s a fool with an impossible assignment. Anne sent him here to get him out of Salpeno. The Empire was sure to collapse if it was ruled by Lothar, Katrin, or Helspeth Ege, so Alten Weinberg looked like a good place to get him out of the way. But now they want him to develop an improbable case of competence and pry Anselin loose. At no cost.”

  Archbishop Brion spoke up again. “The succession. Yes. That must be addressed at the earliest possible opportunity, Majesty.”

  The men looked at Brion, amazed. Where had that come from? Though it was a fine question. Helspeth said, “But not right now. It will be dealt with in the customary manner, in the course of ti
me, when I produce a son. Or a daughter, if that be God’s Will. Till then, my father’s Bill of Succession remains the law.”

  “But that means that if something happens to you your mad aunt Aneis becomes Empress.”

  “If that terrifies you, Brion, make absolutely certain that nothing happens to the Empress you have now.”

  Renfrow said, “Majesty, this reminds me that there is much to be considered concerning the situation in the Connec.”

  Hecht smiled. That was hardly a finesse. He was interested, though. Absent the Shining Ones all he knew about what was happening elsewhere was what Carava de Bos and Rivademar Vircondelet gathered from travelers.

  “Strange things,” Renfrow said. “As strange as what happened in Hovacol, plus local problems resembling those plaguing our good Archbishop.”

  “Ferris, don’t you dare…”

  “Majesty?” Renfrow was taken aback.

  “Sorry. I mistook what you were saying. Proceed.”

  “Of course. So. These are the bare bones facts. Kedle Richeut has become a serious problem for Arnhand. Calling themselves the Vindicated, she and her men have been wasting the Arnhander countryside. They have raided within forty miles of Salpeno. They are kind to no one but are especially cruel to anyone who participated in any incursion into the Connec. Any holding belonging to Anne of Menand becomes a desert.”

  Hecht interjected, “The woman wants her message made clear.”

  “Profoundly. The Countess of Antieux is nearly as mad. She has been involved in several Vindicated actions, sometimes after having been seen in Antieux the same day,” Renfrow said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “That bears examination.”

  “I don’t have the skills. That would be a task for your Ninth Unknown.”

  “Or one of our new associates. None of whom have turned up lately.”

  Helspeth asked, “You two do realize that this isn’t a private consultation?”

  Renfrow said, “Yes, Majesty. We’ll save that for another time. To Richeut. Though she has no falcons there are similarities between her operations and those of our esteemed Lord Arnmigal.”

  Hecht raised an eyebrow. “No falcons? How, then, similar?”

  “Richeut routinely bests larger forces by catching them when they’re vulnerable. She always knows where they are, how they’re disposed, and what they plan. She won’t engage unless she’s confident of the outcome. When she retreats she does so deftly, avoiding complications. And, as happens with Lord Arnmigal, prodigies and miracles attend her.”

  This female captain had her own Instrumentalities?

  “What kind of prodigies?” Helspeth asked.

  “A giant bird often turns up wherever she is, only by night. A similar genius is sometimes seen over Antieux, also only at night.”

  Brion muttered, “More traffic with demons. You should have exterminated those people, Commander.”

  “They wouldn’t let me, Archbishop. They were stubborn about it.”

  Helspeth asked, “Are these people a direct worry, Ferris? We have done the Connec no harm.”

  “No threat. Those starving bitch wolves only take Arnhanders and the occasional Churchman.”

  Archbishop Brion wanted to protest but knew he would get no sympathy.

  Renfrow said, “Society brothers they treat the way the Society treated Connectens till last spring.”

  The Archbishop pleaded, “May I step out before I suffer another stroke, Majesty?”

  “You may not. Continue, Ferris.”

  “That’s it. Except that Antieux is suffering a rash of church desanctifications as widespread as ours.”

  “What is it? What causes it?” Helspeth asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll find out.”

  Hecht felt uncomfortable when Renfrow said that.

  * * *

  Hecht found Renfrow waiting outside the palace, following his own last private minute with Helspeth.

  Renfrow said, “She’s growing into the role.”

  “Fast. I just enjoyed an exhaustive review of my failings as Commander of the Righteous. So far. She’s sure there will be many more.”

  He was not dissembling. Helspeth was not pleased that her Hammer of God could call terrible Instrumentalities to the battlefield.

  “I think your job is safe.”

  “I’m not worried. It is troubling to be misunderstood, though.”

  “Isn’t it? I’ll walk with you a way. If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t. But there are some sharp ears, round about.”

  Hecht’s lifeguards had been waiting, as well. Every man of the Righteous wanted to know what was going on with the boss.

  “They’ll just hear mumbling. I’m wondering if you understand why the Widow is so successful,” asked Renfrow.

  “There’s one easy conclusion, isn’t there?”

  “That she is favored of the Night.”

  “Anne of Menand will make the claim. Her own people will believe that she is beloved of God. Meaning the Good God of the Maysaleans.”

  “You got all the revenants when you were cleaning up out there, didn’t you?”

  “All of the ones we knew about. Rook was tough. I couldn’t guess what might be loose out there now.”

  “Nor can I. I’ll keep watch but it isn’t critical.”

  Hecht said, “It can’t hurt to have those madwomen suck the blood out of Arnhand.”

  “No. But it might be useful to have its wealth and manpower behind you if you do launch the Enterprise.”

  “That will happen, though I’m starting to wonder if we can be ready this summer. We keep getting distracted by political stuff.”

  “That’ll still be true if you live a thousand years. If three people have a goal two will try to subvert the third because they think they have a better idea. Or because they see a chance to line their pockets. Or because they’ve been subverted by the object of the operation. Or because they’re just plain stupid. Stupid is what I see the most.”

  “You’re expansive tonight.”

  “Frustrated and taking it out on you. Feeling outside of everything,” said Renfrow.

  “You? I don’t know where my family are, let alone what they’re doing. The same for the Shining Ones.”

  “The Choosers are your guardian angels. Everyone else is at work trying to eliminate the Windwalker’s brothers and cousins.”

  “Easy.” The lifeguards were close.

  “If you say so.”

  “That’s why I’ve had no contact? They’re tied up in a big struggle?”

  “Unless they’re fooling us all.”

  “And the ascendant? I haven’t seen him, either,” said Hecht.

  “I suppose. Though I thought you gave him a job.”

  “Sort of. But he doesn’t seem to get the team play concept.”

  Renfrow grunted. He was done talking. He turned aside and vanished into shadows. One lifeguard asked, “How did he do that?”

  “What?”

  “He walked into that shadow and didn’t come out the other side.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe sorcery. Let’s get out of here.”

  No one argued.

  * * *

  The following month was a lonely one. Hecht felt isolated even with his oldest intimates. They sensed his mood but understood it no better than he did. Titus Consent, who went back furthest of any, valiantly strove to break through. He did get Hecht talking enough to admit that his moroseness was becoming a problem.

  “Boss, we can get along without you micromanaging. We like it that way. But outsiders need to see the Commander of the Righteous in charge. Just so the rest of us can feel comfortable, how about you pretend you’re interested when we have company?”

  They were alone at the moment. Hecht had been brooding, about what he could not have said if asked. Somehow, by word or tone or triggered nostalgia, Consent got through.

  “Am I really that…? Titus! I’ve beco
me pathetic. How did that happen?”

  “I couldn’t say. But since you’re here in my world for now, how about you tell me how to keep you here?”

  Challenged, Hecht determined to conquer his malaise. “I can’t explain because I don’t know, Titus. I for sure don’t like it.” He caught himself digging at his left wrist, trying to kill a vicious itch. His wrist was raw, moist some places, scabbed elsewhere. “This is driving me crazy, too. I should get something on it before it festers.”

  “We’ll need an itch balm or you’ll scratch till your hand falls off.”

  What he needed was to be rid of the amulet, which supposedly caused itching only when he was close to some serious Instrumentality. But it itched all the time anymore.

  Could a Rudenes Schneidel sort, or something like Vrislakis, be tweaking the amulet to distract him? Maybe hoping he would shed it?

  Titus said, “I know a poultice that should help.”

  Hecht grunted.

  “Whenever you’re mentally present you dig at your wrist. But when you go surly and start studying your own belly button you leave it alone.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. I’ll have the field doc do something as soon as I can.”

  Hecht grumbled sullen assent.

  “While I have you animated, do you have any thoughts on how we can pull you out of this melancholy?”

  “If I did you’d be first to know. I don’t like what’s happening to me, either. I have to live through it.”

  Consent flashed a smile. “We’re making progress already. You admit there’s a problem.”

  The trouble was, even with his mind focused Hecht could make no sense of what was happening. “Track everything I eat and drink and anyone who gets close enough to touch me.”

  “You think it might be poison?”

  “They tried it on Katrin. But, no. Poison would be the hard way with me. I think it’s sorcery.”

  He wished Cloven Februaren would turn up. That old man could break this open.

  Titus said, “We need you sharp for your confabs with the Empress. Helspeth won’t be as tractable as Katrin.”

  * * *

  Just concentrating on the fact that he had mental problems helped Hecht manage them. He drank clean water from snow brought down from the Jagos. He ate vegetables boiled in that water. He ate boiled or roasted meats from freshly slaughtered carcasses, without spices. Only the most trusted cooks prepared his meals. He exercised every morning, usually by running with his staff.