by Glen Cook
“We’ll help you unload,” Shagot promised. “So let’s talk cost.”
Initially, Red Hammer asked if what they wanted was worth thirty-five gold pieces.
Shagot laughed. “No. How stupid do we look? We don’t have that kind of money, anyway. We look like kings? You won’t find one piece of gold between us. You lunatic. Be happy that we’ll give you five Santerin silver pennies.”
The bargaining did not last long. Shagot was in a hurry. The fishermen were impatient to unload their cargo.
The tide was turning.
Svavar worried aloud as he stumbled along under a heavy sack of fish, some of which still wiggled. “We’re getting too good a deal, Grim. They’ll try to rob us.”
“There’s six of us. They may be big and dumb but they aren’t that dumb. What do you want to bet they’ve got some illegal cargo that we’ll help protect in order to get where we’re going?”
Shagot understood such thinking. He had done things like that himself when he was not off with Erief.
“They have them a devilish look in their eyes, Grim.”
“And I don’t blame them. This is as lucky a day as poor people ever get.”
Svavar went right on worrying about treachery and betrayal. Red Hammer might sell them to Gludnir.
Whenever Shagot met the eye of Red or Smith they seemed amused. As though they knew his worries and found them entertaining.
Shagot was sure he had the angles covered. These men were just fishermen and smugglers with no reason to turn treacherous.
It had been a hard go for Shagot, lately. Weariness hung on his bones like tattered cloth. He told the Thorkalssons, “Don’t wake me up unless the ship is going under and the water is up to my nuts.”
He found a place out of the way, on deck. He wanted nothing to do with the hold. The stink of fish was bad enough where he was.
The fog was closing in again.
He thought he dreamed.
He was sound asleep but saw his surroundings as though he was wide awake. The fog grew weaker. The sea became calmer. The people of the sea came up to frolic round the boat. Beautiful maidens from the deep, indistinguishable from human girls except for their beauty, sang to the fishermen. Walker seemed to bless them. He seemed to get younger as the boat moved out to sea, too.
The sea itself changed. The water darkened. A growing chop came running in on the bow. The people of the sea stopped following.
Soon the fisherman was battering its way into the teeth of a rising storm. Its crew remained unperturbed, even after waves started leaping over the bow, hurling white spume. Then it was green water, pounding the foredeck with the fists of giants.
Indifferent, the crew forged on.
The three were no longer amiable or chatty. They worked ship—when they did anything at all—with very little talk. Shagot could not understand how they managed to cope.
Fierce lightning began dueling inside the storm. Several bolts stabbed the sea near the fishing craft. A bolt hit Red Hammer.
Shagot understood, then, that these mad fishermen had sailed them all to their deaths.
His eyes recovered from the glare. He saw the lunatic redhead standing with his arms upraised, his roaring laughter competing with the thunder. He welcomed the caress of the storm.
Shagot finally realized that he was not at the mercy of insane fishermen at all. He became more frightened than ever he had been, even in the deeps of the night, far from any friendly shore.
Walker sensed his shift of being the instant the fear took hold. He turned away from the storm and looked Shagot directly in the eye.
Shagot almost cried for his mother.
Walker was old but not nearly as old as before. He had become someone of strength and substance. But what pierced Shagot with terror was the fact that Walker had only one eye.
Shagot scarcely had a chance to whimper before darkness collapsed upon him.
THE BOAT, NOW A GOLDEN BARGE, EMERGED FROM THE STORM ONTO AN emerald sea like none ever seen by the traders and raiders of Andoray. The barge, invisibly propelled, moved in alongside a quay of polished rose granite. Officious, chattering dwarves with vast beards tied the barge up, then hustled aboard. They collected the sleeping warriors and took them ashore, carried them up a long road that led to a vast sprawl of a castle barely discernable atop a tall, sheer-flanked mountain.
Barge, sea, dwarves, mountain, and castle all appeared exactly as portrayed in legend and song.
Somewhere along the upward road there would be a bridge woven together from rainbows.
THE PEOPLE OF ARA, ALL SHAKING THEIR HEADS, BEWILDERED, STUMBLED back into their village. A whole day had slipped off into eternity unnoticed.
Someone—or something—had come to Ara during their absence. Nothing was missing and no damage had been done. But someone had gone through Ara, poking into everything.
A cry came from the icehouse. The villagers all rushed over. And discovered that Ara had been blessed with the biggest catch of fish anyone had ever seen.
Folk scattered to collect gutting and scaling knives. The work began. The traditional malcontents grumbled because all this found wealth forced them to gut and bone and fillet and capture roe like never before in their experience.
For some people there is a cloud inside anything silver.
8. Antieux, in the End of Connec
T
he Patriarchal legate to the Bishop of Antieux, Bronte Doneto, was a bishop without a see. Which was an indirect way of saying that he was a member of the Collegium. One of those quiet, frightening members little known to anyone outside. Bishop Serifs, although a creature of the Patriarch, did not know the man. Had he done so he would have been less sanguine while awaiting his next meeting with the emissary.
Bronte Doneto was a close ally of Sublime V because they were cousins. Doneto expected that they would go far together. They were young. They were strong. They dreamed big dreams. But the path to fulfillment of those dreams was strewn with obstacles like Bishop Serifs, men venal enough to be used but without drive enough to do anything useful on their own. They were content to secrete themselves in their grand palaces, playing with their concubines and catamites while stealing the wherewithal to keep themselves in style.
Doneto was a cynic. He expected the worst of everyone and bragged that they seldom disappointed him. But he was a true believer, too—in his conviction that the Church ought to be the be-all and end-all of the Chaldarean world. He was not as deeply engaged by Church dogma.
Doneto chose to accept Bishop Serifs’ challenge. He would sample the mood of the people. What the rabble had to say would tell him what needed doing to cleanse the Connec of heresy.
BRONTE DONETO DID NOT SHIFT ROLES EASILY. HE WAS NOT A PRINCE WHO could disguise himself as a pauper and pass. He was not an actor with any range. This trip into the Connec was the farthest afield he had traveled, ever. Only once before had he ventured outside the safety of the Episcopal States, in an unsuccessful attempt to convince the families of Aparion that they should donate ships to transport an army that Sublime’s predecessor wanted to send to invade the Firaldian Praman kingdom of Calzir.
Calzir was a more suitable target for a crusade, Doneto believed. It was not powerful. It had no friends. It just had those great natural defenses, the Vaillarentiglia Mountains. Expunge Calzir and you would clear Firaldia of the last vestiges of the Praman in the heartland of the Old Brothen Empire. That would encourage Chaldareans everywhere.
But Bronte’s cousin wanted to be a Patriarch whose name echoed down the ages. He wanted to be remembered as the Patriarch who triumphed over the Pramans and the rest of the Church’s enemies while uniting all Chaldareans under the Patriarchal banner and recovering the Holy Lands.
Doneto did not believe that they would live that long. It was too huge a task.
Bronte Doneto thought it would be easy to pass as lower class. All you had to do was talk crudely and smell bad. Never mind that your clothing was foreign and too ri
ch. Never mind that bodyguards followed you around. Never mind that disdain rolled off you like steam even when you kept your mouth shut.
The folk of Antieux did not recognize him as a Patriarchal legate, though. So he did get an earful of Connecten attitude toward Sublime and his shit-eating, thieving running dog, Bishop Serifs.
Vries Yunker was the legate’s chief bodyguard. Doneto found nothing to recommend the man other than the fact that no blade had yet found the episcopal throat. Yunker could have been a mastiff as far as Doneto was concerned.
Yunker suggested, “We should return to our quarters, sir. We’re tempting fate.” This after Doneto’s passage through a farmer’s market, as safe a venture as could be arranged.
Yunker knew the people who frequented the places that Doneto wanted to visit. He was that kind of people himself. They understood that something was going on immediately.
Doneto refused to listen. He was having too much fun feeling superior.
Yunkers’ pessimism was not unfounded. In fact, when trouble came it was far worse than Yunker anticipated. There was a sudden rush of bodies, right there in the twilight street, in front of a hundred witnesses. Pain exploded in his side.
All three bodyguards died. Bronte Doneto suffered numerous stab wounds before he dragged an earthenware ball out of a pocket. He smashed that against the nearest building.
The world vanished in a torrent of light. Voices screamed, “Sorcery!”
Bronte Doneto plunged into unconsciousness.
THE ATTENDING BROTHER SEEMED LESS THAN THRILLED WHEN DONETO opened his eyes. The look vanished instantly.
The legate gasped, “Do I need supreme unction?”
“Sir? Ah. No, sir. I’m a healing brother. Don’t try to get up. You’ll open your wounds.”
Doneto recalled the sudden, brilliant pain of blades probing his flesh. He felt no pain now. But he did feel numerous bandages. He did feel the pull of stitches in a half-dozen places. “How bad am I hurt?”
“Only God’s Grace saved you, sir. Or incredible luck. You were stabbed six times. Two of your wounds are so deep they must have been made by a sword. You lost a lot of blood.”
When Bronte expressed no interest the healing brother volunteered, “Your companions weren’t as lucky as you. All three perished.”
Which they deserved for their failure. But Doneto did not vent his sentiments aloud. “Who was responsible? And why?”
The priest shrugged. “Robbers, I suppose.”
Those were not robbers. Those were assassins. Those men were serious about their work. Those men were not novices. Bronte Doneto was supposed to be dead.
“You suppose? What did they have to say?”
The healing brother seemed baffled by the question.
“They were captured, weren’t they?”
“No.”
Of course not, Doneto thought. He insisted that the rest of his guards investigate. Obviously, the local authorities were incompetent.
It took his men almost no time to determine that no one would tell them anything. Mica Troendel told Doneto, “Nobody actually said so, Your Grace, but I got the distinct impression that your survival was a popular disappointment.”
Doneto assumed that meant the assassins were locals able to intimidate the populace. Only later did he entertain the possibility that the populace might wish the assassins well without knowing who they were.
Lying there, unable to move, Doneto had a lot of time to reflect on the situation in the Connec as seen by ordinary folk. And he was not pleased. Not at all. But maybe the truth could be a useful tool, too.
“Maysalean heretics tried to murder me,” Doneto told Serifs when the Bishop found time to get away from his indulgences.
Serifs disagreed. “No. They’re pacifists. They wouldn’t murder anybody.”
“Not even a Patriarchal legate who’s their sworn enemy?”
“Especially not a legate. They want no trouble with Brothe. They want Brothe to leave them alone. That’s all the people of the Connec want. For Brothe to leave them alone.”
“Put the accusation out there anyway.”
“Nobody will believe it. The likely result is, they’ll decide that you staged the whole thing so you’d have an excuse to make accusations.” Serifs sounded mildly accusing himself. That suspicion had found a comfortable home in his mind.
Doneto realized he faced a no-win situation. His time amongst the unwashed had shown him how little they respected Brothe and the Church and how much suspicion they directed that way. Worse, the Connecten Episcopals were more critical than their heretical Maysalean cousins.
The fearful lesson of the night of the knives was that Connectens were convinced all social evil and moral depravity originated in Brothe and Krois, the Patriarchal Palace there.
“Then lay it at the feet of that syphilitic at Viscesment.”
“As you wish. But the people won’t believe that, either.”
“What will they believe?” Doneto had to force himself to relax. He felt stitches tearing.
“Anything negative about the Patriarch and the Collegium, however absurd.”
“So who tried to murder me? Really.”
Bishop Serifs shrugged. “It might have been robbers.” Then, as Doneto was about to explode, “Probably supporters of Immaculate who acted without approval from Viscesment. Or it might have been someone whose property we took.”
“How would anyone from any faction know about me? This was supposed to be a secret mission. Even you don’t know much about me.”
Serifs shrugged again. “I told no one anything. So, once again, maybe they were robbers. Or, maybe, somebody in Brothe thought it might be convenient to kill you out here where it wouldn’t cause much excitement.”
Robbers? Bull. Robbers did not attack armed bands.
Murder as a political instrument was not common. Not this way, at least. When it did happen it involved poison or a skillfully placed dagger, usually after the fact of a coup or the unwinding of a skein of extreme duplicity. It did not happen in front of hundreds of witnesses. Unless . . . unless someone wanted to send a powerful message. As, for example, to Sublime himself.
Suddenly, Doneto trusted no one. Maybe Serifs himself was the villain. Or Duke Tormond. Tormond commanded soldiers. Those men might have been soldiers. But how would the Duke know? “I want to see my man Troendel.” Mica Troendel was his senior surviving bodyguard. Doneto wanted to be ready to travel as soon as he could. And he wanted to feel safe until he was able.
He would deal with the problem of the Connec after he was safely away from it. Harshly.
This mission was a disaster. And he suspected that things would get no better.
Doneto wanted to flee Antieux but the healing brothers insisted that he needed a lot of recuperation. In the end, they let him travel as far as Bishop Serifs’s manor in the vineyard-strewn hills overlooking the city. It should be easier for his remaining bodyguards to protect him there.
That move did exactly what the healing brothers warned it might. It opened his wounds. He began a battle with infection that lasted for months.
9. Travels on the Mother Sea
T
he merchant ship was too small. It bounced on the water like a cork. It creaked and groaned of imminent disintegration even when the waters were calm. It stank. There was nothing for a passenger to do but hang on desperately when a blow came up. Its one saving grace was that it let Else keep his boots dry by not having to walk to Staklirhod.
The Sha-lug sprawled on something that might have contained cotton in the process of being smuggled. It was against Dreangerean law to sell cotton to Chaldareans. Merchants, though, did not let themselves get caught up in religious dogma or political faith. Gulls drifted around the ship, hoping for scraps but snapping up small fish churned to the surface in the wake. The sky was almost cloudless and of a blue so intense that it felt like he could fall in.
From where he lay Else could see the loom of several islands a
nd the sails of a half-dozen ships.
An Antast Chaldarean seaman named Mallin sprawled close by, also feasting on the lack of tension. He hailed from the Neret Mountains, which faced the coast in both Lucidia and the southernmost province of the Eastern Empire. The region shifted between Rhûn and the eastern Kaifate frequently.
The Antasts harkened back to the Founders. They argued that their vision was identical to the one set forth by Aaron, Eis, Kelam, and the others.
“Don’t you worry about pirates?” Else asked. “All these islands, seems like pirates’ heaven.”
“Maybe in ancient times. Before the Old Empire. And a couple of times afterward. But not today. The Brotherhood of War doesn’t tolerate piracy. When piracy happens, a lot of people die. Most of them in bad ways. Wives, children, anyone fool enough to live in the same town. And if the Brotherhood don’t get them, the Firaldian republics will. If the fleet of the Eastern Empire don’t get there first. Nah. The problem we’re likely to have is official harassment. See that island, looks like a saddle? We pass that, you’ll see Cape Jen straight ahead. That’s the eastern tip of Staklirhod. We should make port on the morning tide.”
“I thought we’d need another day.”
“We made good time. Nahlik says you’re a good luck charm. We didn’t have to pay bribes to get out of Shartelle and our cargo was ready when we got there. And there’s been no bad weather.”
“No bad weather? You’re mad.”
“Landlubber. We’ve seen nothing but mild breezes and light seas.”
“So it is true. It does take a streak of insanity to be a sailor. A wide streak.”
“No point denying that. What’s your excuse for being out here?”
“I just like running around on water filled with things that want to eat me.” Mallin was fishing. All the crew did. They were loyal to Dreanger but they were curious. They thought he might be Sha-lug, not some ransomed Arnhander knight.
Mallin grunted.
