by Cook, Glen
40. East of Triamolin: Mischief-Makings
Brother Candle killed a louse, then killed another. Then another, still, viciously, before announcing, “I begin to understand how some men become murderous.” Lice, people, it was a matter of degree, and people were the deeper source of aggravation. Killing got the screaming frustration out, the maddening pressure inside reduced, and punctuated one source of frustration forever.
Kedle did not quite agree. She winced while shifting to reach for a peach. Exertions the night of the big ambush had inflamed her old injuries. Her leg hurt a lot. But she was Kedle Richeut, the Widow, bloodthirsty avenging spirit of the Vindicated. She could not make herself stay inactive long enough to manage a full recovery. She told everyone that she enjoyed the local warmth. Cold weather only made the leg hurt more. Brother Candle was amazed that anyone could find a bright side to being baked greaseless.
She asked, “Have we begun to experience regrets, Master?”
“‘We’ set foot on that trail before Darter passed the breakwater at Terliaga.”
“So you’ve done your penance. They’ll park your bony arse on the right hand of God, between Him and Aaron.” Deliberate sacrilege.
Brother Candle refused the bait. “Just let me mope and feel sorry for myself.”
One of the Arnhander youngsters came in to announce, “That General Ghort guy is here again, Lady.”
Kedle waved. The boy backed out. Kedle asked, “You heard? I’m a Lady, now.”
“He thinks his friend is a lady, too.”
That could have sparked a quarrel, Kedle’s appreciation for Hope being what it was, but the Captain-General’s arrival interrupted. Ghort checked them out while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Squabbling again?”
“Still,” the Perfect conceded.
Kedle grumbled, “There’s nobody else to fight with. The Commander of the Righteous keeps not letting us do what we came here to do.”
“I may have some good news, then. May I sit?”
“If the news is what I want to hear you can sit on my lap.”
“I shall do my best to polish and spin it prettily, then.”
Brother Candle was shocked. Kedle was, too. She had blurted something thoughtlessly to a Captain-General hardly subtle or shy about his interest in the Widow as a woman.
The Perfect thought Kedle found the notion intriguing but confusing. She could not discuss it with him. The only woman she knew was Hope. Hope would, he thought, tell Kedle to grab the chance, being incapable of grasping the concept of monogamy herself. He thought he had a pretty good idea where Hope fit in the old pantheon, now.
The Captain-General said, “I went to Shartelle and spent some time with my old friend. We drank some, swapped some lies about the old days, caught up with friends from back when. Stuff guys do when they haven’t seen each other for a while.” He sounded disappointed.
Ghort continued, “He’s changed. He’s always as serious as a thunderhead. He has all his old friends worried. It’s like he’s made himself the best war leader ever basically by giving up what made him human.”
Kedle said, “Rumor says he’s been touched by the Night.”
“Ain’t hardly no doubt about that. And he’s attracted a bunch of others almost just like him. Though I got to admit that some of them are yummy. Evie and Aldi, man! Boyhood fantasies come to life.”
Brother Candle’s tongue betrayed him. “I think we’ve met Aldi.”
“Huh? You have?” Ghort looked baffled.
“Captain-General, you dare flirt with me, then praise other women?”
Brother Candle was surprised. He thought that Kedle had surprised herself, too. But she did have a point.
“You’re right.” Ghort was wise enough to know that nothing would help, however he said it. “So. I did task my friend about us going to seed, here. He isn’t happy with us because he can’t control us. That’s the big change I saw. He’s very controlling, now. He looks at anyone not under his orders like the Perfect looks at his lice. They’re pests and parasites.”
Kedle grumbled something about how she’d show the jerk a parasite if he ever got close enough.
Grimly, Ghort said, “Don’t say stuff like that. He’ll hear about it and take it seriously. There have been some ugly attempts to kill him. The assassins did get his sense of humor. Not that he was ever a ha-ha guy.”
“So?” Brother Candle wanted Ghort back to his excuse for visiting Kedle.
“He says it’s all right if we head east to help hold the gap between Gherig, the Well of Days, and Megaeda, so reinforcements from Lucidia can’t come through.”
“I thought Indala’s gang were trapped in Shamramdi.”
“So they are. We’re welcome to go play siege there, too, if we want. Under command of the captains on the scene.”
Before Kedle complained Brother Candle said, “You left Terliaga knowing you wouldn’t have the freedom of action you had in Arnhand.”
Ghort laughed. “Hey! No shit! We want something left standing when it’s all over.”
Kedle said, “I’ll take that as a compliment. Let’s talk, then. The man running Gherig these days. He used to be Lord Arnmigal’s bodyguard?”
“The boss lifeguard. He quit because Piper wouldn’t listen to him. Which only got him—Hecht, Lord Arnmigal, that is—almost killed a few times because he wouldn’t. He’s been lucky as hell, so far. Yeah. Madouc of Hoeles. Brotherhood of War. Exactly the kind of guy anybody who goes into that order wants to be when he grows up. I got along with him. Not real flexible, but brilliant. And considerate. Though I figure he’s changed out here, too. He’d be more active if he had more manpower. For a long time, though, too, he was up against one of the best damned war fighters that ever was.”
“Any chance we might see some action?”
Ghort dared leer and grumble, “Not as good as I’d like, probably. Damn! I said that out loud. Oh, well. You mean opportunities for old-fashioned skull busting. Damn, woman! Weren’t you listening? Gherig sits smack on the main road, the only route between Lucidia and the Holy Lands with plenty of water. If Indala ever breaks out of Shamramdi he’ll have to push through there to rescue his cousins over here.”
Kedle knew all that. She worked on being the Widow night and day. Brother Candle thought she might be playing dumb girl for Ghort’s benefit.
Let him think he was making some headway.
Kedle said, “I imagine Lord Arnmigal just wants his mavericks put where they’ll get used up weakening his enemies while staying out of his hair. He does have hair, doesn’t he? I’m not big on a man without hair. My husband began going bald before he was twenty.”
Ghort ran fingers through his wild mass of brush.
Kedle pretended to miss that. “Well, it’s a chance to do something besides go to mold.”
“For sure,” Ghort said. “For sure,” then fell silent and stayed that way, which amazed Brother Candle. The man almost never shut up.
Kedle added, “I was considering making a run at Vantrad. Those idiots aren’t ready for anything, even with the Dreangereans only two days away.”
She had been spying, and not just with Hope’s assistance, looking for something to do. Her determination irked the Perfect endlessly. It was too damned hot to be banging around!
Her notion of a surprise attack on the Holy City totally deflated Ghort.
Brother Candle had been unaware of her thinking, too. “Kedle!”
“Oh, come on! We could do it! Nobody expects us to try. They figure we’ll just loaf around until his holiness, Lord Arnmigal, the Episcopal god of war, grants us permission to inhale.”
Brother Candle chewed air like a beached carp. She was capable of such audacity because she was incapable of understanding that she should not be. She was unable to consider possible failure. She would see nothing but a chance to win the Vindicated a place in the histories.
She depended too much on Hope. This was a new war in a new land. That sweet devil must operat
e under tougher constraints herself. Her demonic cabal had its own secret agenda.
Kedle said, “I’ll consider this idea. Let me consult my captains.”
Brother Candle indulged a smirk. Kedle would talk at the Vindicated, after checking with Hope—if she could lure the Instrumentality.
The Perfect had to admit that he wished Hope were around more. It could be pleasant, being driven by his sinner side, inside the secret society of his mind.
* * *
Hope told Kedle, “The idea makes me uncomfortable, dear, though it is better than an attack on Vantrad. Lord Arnmigal is not understanding. He has lost his shadow. If you go after Vantrad, even though he’s never said not to, he’ll turn on you.”
Brother Candle believed her. She was in the moment. Were she human she would be shaky. But he was equally sure that she was holding back something to do with the situation around Gherig.
Hope did not want Kedle headed for the frontier. Why not?
Kedle wondered, too, clearly, and Hope was irked because she had given herself away.
Kedle was not intimidated by Hope. She might not know any intimate details but she did see that Instrumentalities need no longer be dreaded as they had in olden times. She jumped in behind Hope and threw an arm across her throat, playfully. “Give, woman! How come you’re all spooked?”
Hope was willing to play, despite the audience, but only briefly. She yielded, talked.
Kedle demanded, “Is that the sorcerer who was behind the resurrections in the Connec?”
“Keep thy fingers to thine own self and open thy ears, beloved. This would be an ally of Rudenes Schneidel. They were after ascendance and supernatural power. Lord Arnmigal wrote Schneidel’s last chapter while he was Captain-General. Er-Rashal wants to restore the Dreangerean empire, too, which is a fool’s hope, my elders assure me.”
Brother Candle sensed a lack of conviction. Hope was not sure of her own tribe.
She added, “This er-Rashal is the cruelest, cleverest, most remorseless of his kind, excepting Tsistimed the Golden. But Tsistimed is an ascendant already.” Hope shuddered, obviously disturbed by that. “Fortunately for the middle world, er-Rashal has a knack for creating enemies and suffers from chronic bad luck.”
“Which means what?”
“He is so vile that he always has people trying to abort his ambitions.”
Kedle mused, “Sounds like a Dreangerean Anne of Menand, absent the redeeming quality of her bedroom skills.”
“Perhaps. He’s probably a eunuch, but that’s irrelevant. The important thing is, he is about to succeed. In only a few months, maybe even only a few weeks, he may manage his breakthrough.”
Kedle demanded, “So why hasn’t somebody done something?”
“They try, dear. The child’s answer is, he won’t let them. The unfortunate great obstacle, though, is the belief systems of the peoples in these parts. They won’t credit a threat from a sleeping god. They say there is only one god, and He is God. And a lot of them are willing to commit murder to decide His absolute true identity.”
Brother Candle strained to control his breathing and slow his heartbeat. Despite Hope, despite all else, he had trouble getting his mind around the fact that there was so much more to the Night than what he had believed just a few years ago.
That monster in what indigenes called the Idiam should not exist. Not in a truly Chaldarean or Maysalean universe.
Something clicked. It did not coalesce into anything concrete, yet it did add to his disquiet about Hope.
She was being so careful. Carefully careful, hoping not to be noticed being careful, tiptoeing through meadows of information. She did not want middle-worlders to see something to do with the Dreangerean, something not immediately obvious.
Kedle felt it, too. “I’m sure the Vindicated will agree. Any business will be preferable to what we’re enduring now.”
Hope seemed relieved momentarily, then slightly troubled, caught up in some internal debate. Kedle’s ready agreement solved an immediate vexation but stirred a possible new slate of problems.
Hope read his smile, more troubled. She failed to flirt, tempt, or taunt. Nor did she turn her allure upon Kedle.
She said, “I am obligated to report your choice. I suggest you start moving immediately. The weather will turn nasty in a few days. You won’t want to travel during the storms.” She surprised Kedle with a quick hug and peck on the forehead, strode briskly out of the tent.
Everyone inside saw her leave. No one outside saw her emerge. The guards were bracing for the blustery advent of the Brothen Captain-General, who seemed unable to understand that he was not the stallion of the herd.
The Widow seemed to like Pinkus Ghort, for no evident reason. His presence always complicated the moment.
Inside, Kedle told Brother Candle, “Hope is up to something.”
“Dear girl, of course she is. She can’t help it. She meant to use us from the start.” He rubbed the head of the snake tattooed on his left arm. A lesser serpent stirred, recalling that first encounter.
What had been in the air that night?
Kedle said, “With no more evidence than a gut feeling, I think she’s just another piece on the board, now, carrying out instructions sloppily enough that we can tell that her aunts are pushing her into something that doesn’t thrill her.”
“Your sense of it is finer than mine. Any idea what is really going on?”
Kedle laid a finger to her lips. Brother Candle thought she was concerned about supernatural eavesdroppers till Pinkus Ghort appeared, having talked his way past her guards.
Kedle growled, exasperated but not actually unhappy.
The Perfect suspected that the Captain-General had been touched by the Night himself. He had more substance than his reputation suggested.
Brother Candle’s tattoos moved. Responding to Ghort? Was he a danger? The snakes had not stirred since the Praman raid, when their poison had added several stains to the Perfect’s soul.
41. The Holy Lands: Ad Hoc Scrambles and Royal Mischief
Hecht was moments from descent into a deep sleep. That need was back. He hated it. It cost too much time. He dreamed dreams that were far too disturbing. He could not afford to waste the time and stress.
Something had changed. Something had shifted after Helspeth’s arrival.
The air stirred as someone materialized. So much for his drift toward slumber. Uncharitably, he hoped that it was not Helspeth with the time candle.
Uncharitable, yes, but he felt the same toward his sister and daughters though he had seen none of them since Hypraxium.
When rested and working he did miss them and Anna. He was starved for family closeness.
Strange. He was a split beast for sure, ever less at home inside himself, liking Piper Hecht less and less as he morphed more concretely into Lord Arnmigal, master of the Enterprise of Peace and Faith.
Hourli said, “I know you aren’t sleeping. You snore villainously.”
Hecht offered the universe a put-upon sigh, unwound, rolled to face the goddess. She glowed, putting the shine in Shining One.
“It can’t wait?” He felt ferociously cranky yet actually was pleased. He always started to feel better when Hourli came around. Much better if she stayed a while.
Was some destructive fragment of self, buried too deep to recognize, driving him toward another ill-advised liaison? He hoped not. He felt none of the obsession that had begun with his first glimpse of Helspeth, nor the comfortable correctness he had always known with Anna. Nor did he feel coerced, as with Katrin. Hourli was more like a lifelong friend whose presence eased his aches and cares.
The old friend was not above an occasional oblique suggestion that she would not mind amusing herself with a dalliance.
He shuddered.
That would not happen. He had female complications enough, and more.
Silence stretched. It did not become uncomfortable. He felt better by the moment.
This improveme
nt in energy and mood and recession in weariness occurred with all of the Shining Ones, to a lesser extent, excepting Eavijne. Eavijne could be more refreshing than Hourli when she wanted.
Evie offered a suite of temptations, and was pliable enough …
Again, no!
But Evie smelled so good, like apples, pines, cherry blossoms …
He shuddered, bore down. “To what do I owe the pleasure, then?”
Hourli smirked. She produced a locally baked sweet seed cake, heavy with raisins and honey. He took it, knowing he would feel better for having gotten it down. She said, “You needed that. And I thought you might be intrigued by interesting things happening elsewhere.”
“Do they affect us?”
“Of course they do. Sooner or later. Maybe both. A grandson of Tsistimed the Golden has been given leave to raid Qasr al-Zed, to test its defenses.”
“There are Hu’n-tai At mercenaries with the Righteous at Shamramdi. No doubt they report to Tsistimed.”
“Would you like them to stop? It is a long, dangerous journey from Shamramdi to Ghargarlicea.”
“One of your better ideas. What else?”
“Pella handed Iresh abd al-Kadiri a serious rebuke today.”
“Oh?” He debated himself daily about the wisdom of having relented and let Pella command the falcon force harassing the Dreangereans. The boy should be safe if he did not decide to show off.
Evidently, he had suffered that lapse.
“Is he all right?” Anna would never forgive him if the boy got killed.
“He bombarded their camp. Their casualties were nasty.”
“That’s the nature of falcon fires.”
“Pella hoped to provoke them into attacking. The Sha-lug convinced Iresh not to let his men be massacred.”
“Too bad.”
“Iresh’s indecision hasn’t buoyed morale. After the bombardment, once night fell, hundreds deserted. Another demonstration could scatter all but the Sha-lug. Nobody wants to die just sitting around camp.”
While on short rations and squabbling over water.
Iresh’s indecision would consume him. The Sha-lug would stay but would turn on Iresh when the armistice ended.
