by Glen Cook
Svavar had concluded, after all he had been through since Erief’s murder, that it might not be a bad thing if a few gods died, too.
In time, Shagot pulled himself together enough to get up on his hind legs and start traveling again.
“Where are we headed, big brother?” Svavar wanted to know.
“For now, the Old City. Brothe. I don’t know why. That’s where they want us to go.”
Shagot was puzzled with himself. He had no drive left. But for the nagging of the god voices in the back of his brain he would have headed home himself.
Asgrimmur, for his part, began to see his brother as a holy madman. Those were rare in northern tradition but the notion of the insane having been touched by the gods was entrenched. In Shagot’s case there was no doubt.
THE GODS OF THE NORTH WERE SPITEFUL, CHILDISH, AND PETTY. A GREAT many gods, across the earth, went way long on the famine, pestilence, and war, but came up short on characteristics their worshipers would find congenial.
Finnboga and Hallgrim, Sigurdur and Sigurjon, encountered the malice of the Instrumentalities of the Night just two evenings after abandoning Shagot and Svavar.
They were sheltering for the night beneath an old stone bridge spanning a stream less than six yards wide. The river was low because of the season. It had snowed that afternoon. Now a brisk and bitter wind muttered around the old bridge. Gusts whipped their little fire, threatening to kill it.
This shelter had served travelers for centuries. Numerous fires had burned on the same spot, surrounded by the same blackened stones. Another fire burned on the north side of the stream, where half a dozen southbound travelers huddled against the cold.
Hallgrim grumbled, “I’m getting old. Ten years ago this would’ve been a spring breeze. Now I’m thinking about emigrating to Iceland.”
His companions grunted. None had visited Iceland but they had heard about the geysers and hot springs and magical vents that defeated the most ferocious winters. When the cliffs of ice crossed the Ormo Strait to begin devouring the New Brothen Empire, Iceland would still be warm.
Sigurjon observed, “Things could be different out there, though. If it’s part of one big kingdom and those black crow priests run things.”
Finnboga inquired, “How hard could it be to kill a few priests?”
“How hard?” Sigurdur snapped. “Look at us.”
Sigurjon said, “It must be harder than it looks. Otherwise, why would those lilies be in power?”
Sigurdur said, “You’re right. They are in charge in these parts. And it don’t look like there’s much chance of that changing. Shit!”
“What?”
“I’ve got to crap again.” It was the sixth time that day. Sigurdur had begun to worry. A man who lost control of his bowels could end up shitting himself to death.
Sigurjon told him, “Well, take it downwind. That last load was so foul the flies dropped dead.”
Stomach cramping, Sigurdur stumbled away, headed for a spot he had scouted before darkness fell, anticipating this emergency.
He located the twin stones, fumbled with his trousers, urgently willing them out of the way before the explosion came while dreading the crude bite of the wind on his buttocks.
He managed in time, voided the first nasty charge. He indulged in a little self-congratulation even as he bent over a fresh, more ferocious set of cramps.
As that departed in a rumbling gush Sigurdur realized that he was not alone. And that whoever was there was not one of his traveling companions. He could see his brother, Hallgrim, and Finnboga huddling close to the fire, making jokes at his expense.
He eased a hand toward his knife.
A shadow drifted nearer. The campfires cast just enough light to show him a woman wearing a hooded black cloak. The cloak’s hem dragged the ground.
He could see nothing but her face. It was a beautiful face, much like his mother’s must have looked when she was young.
Sigurdur thought, you heard about this sort of thing all your life but you were never ready when it happened. You never believed you would attract the interest of the Instrumentalities of the Night.
The woman opened her cloak. She wore nothing beneath. Her body was perfection. It exuded warmth. It could not be resisted.
It was too late even for the wary.
SIGURJON BEGAN TO WORRY. “WHAT’S TAKING HIM SO LONG? HE’S ALWAYS been full of shit, but . . . gods.”
“Maybe he’s trying to get it all worked out in one granddaddy load.”
“He’ll get frostbite on his ass if he fools around too long.” Sigurjon rose. He yelled. His twin did not respond. He sat back down, sure that if there was any real trouble he would sense it through their twin bond.
Half an hour later Finnboga and Hallgrim were troubled enough to go out searching, shouting, leaving Sigurjon by the fire.
They found nothing.
“We’ll look again after it’s light. We can’t find anything now. Let’s cast lots for first watch.” That would have been Sigurdur’s job.
THEY FOUND THE PLACE WHERE SIGURDUR HAD EMPTIED HIS BOWELS. Then, despite the tracks they had left all over while searching in the dark, they discovered the trail Sigurdur had left when he headed upstream, beside the river. They found Sigurdur himself half a mile from camp, half in and half out of the river, naked from the waist down. They never found his trousers.
“He died happy,” Hallgrim said.
But Sigurdur’s skin was as pale as the snow, not because he was dead but because all the blood had been drained from his body.
The frozen mud retained footprints made by a woman’s small, bare feet.
The tale was not hard to read, just hard to believe. You heard the stories but you never really believed.
But the things of the night were as real as cruel death. And every bit as wicked as the stories claimed.
The survivors made no immediate connection between Sigurdur’s misfortune and their having turned their backs on their gods.
When they returned to camp they discovered that they had been plundered by their neighbors. The villains had left them with little more than what they wore and the weapons they carried. Which they had come near ruining while hacking out a shallow grave for Sigurdur.
Sigurjon was the smartest survivor. He began to suspect divine mischief when something got Hallgrim a week later. This death in the dark did not leave its victim smiling. It did not leave its victim with a face at all.
Neither Sigurjon nor Finnboga ever heard a sound.
17. The Connec, After the Blood
B
rother Candle’s captors let several days pass before he was allowed to see Count Raymone Garete. No one accused him of anything. He was known and respected throughout the End of Connec. To be deemed a traitor he would have to indict himself out of his own mouth.
“Well?” the Count asked. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I was on the road. Trying to overtake you. The Arnhanders captured me. At the moment you attacked the Archbishop was offering me the opportunity to be the central character in a heresy trial.”
“I can see why he’d think that way. Why were you trying to catch me?”
“In hopes that I could talk you out of attacking the Arnhanders. This war can only end in disaster for the End of Connec.”
The Count’s henchmen laughed, mocked Brother Candle, made chicken-clucking noises. Few were older than the Count. One said, “Looks to me like the disaster boot is on the other foot, Brother. Twice, now.”
Brother Candle shook his head. “I have no hope of selling sanity, now. The die is cast. You arrogant young men. Listen! Don’t rest on your laurels. Next summer, or the summer after, or the summer after that, the armies of Arnhand and the Brothen Patriarch will return. And they’ll descend like the Wrath of God Himself.”
That was not what they wanted to hear. They wanted to be told that Santerin would never stop feuding with Arnhand. They wanted to hear about dynastic troubles that
would cripple Arnhand. They wanted to be told that the Patriarch was a bucket full of wind, with the Grail Emperor hard on its flank, poised to strike the instant Sublime overextended himself.
Brother Candle had enjoyed success in his worldly life. His success as a Perfect was more limited, because he was now a holy man. A holy man who lacked the advantage enjoyed by Sublime: an army to make dimwits listen.
He did not remain with the Count. He got back on the road. He would rejoin Duke Tormond and try to subdue the future from Khaurene.
There was no way to stop the coming war. Arnhand’s leading families would all demand it. What he had to do now was keep emotion from gaining complete control. The more the emotions could be blunted the gentler the future would be.
He would try to convince the high and the mighty—Tormond in particular—that they must prepare for the worst.
He did not want war. But if war could not be avoided, then the Connec should be prepared to respond with a ferocity and vigor that would overawe anyone interested only in fattening his fortune.
Brother Candle walked the ancient, cold highway to Khaurene uncomfortably aware that the one last thing he had to do in this world, and had to do better than he had done anything before, was a work that he loathed. He had to nurture and guide the Seekers After Light through an age of horror and violence that would determine whether their faith persevered or vanished from the earth forever.
The Maysalean Heresy would not go meekly, however gentle its hopes. Ironically, though, those Connectens who would bear the brunt of the expense and fighting would be devout Chaldareans defending themselves from men who claimed to be the champions of their own faith.
18. Plemenza: The Dimmel Palace
P
lemenza was a bright and colorful city but the captives got no chance to enjoy it. The troops who brought them in made sure they had no contact with the locals. As far as Else could tell, the locals were not curious.
The party passed through the gates of the Dimmel Palace. And that was that, for a long time.
Nothing cruel happened. Nothing happened at all. The captives entered a section of palace where the windows and all but one door had been bricked up. Then they were ignored. Though meals did arrive regularly. Initially, Bronte Doneto raged and demanded to see someone, anyone, even the Emperor himself. The only servant they ever saw never responded in any way.
Doneto was outraged but not concerned for his safety. “This is just a logical escalation in the Emperor’s squabble with Sublime. If Johannes keeps me away from the Collegium, the Patriarch will have a lot of trouble getting their backing.”
Else listened closely. If removing one man could paralyze the enemy’s center of power . . . A little work with some sharpened steel and . . .
Much better, more clever, to make a key vote disappear somewhere away from Brothe. Keeping the survival of the voter a mystery.
The Collegium could not replace Bronte Doneto unless they knew he was no longer healthy enough to assist in the glorification of the Church. And then they would need the Patriarch’s blessing.
Doneto was positive. He wakened every morning sure that this would be the last day of his captivity. And every night he fell asleep on a thin mattress, confused and alone except for his despair.
SOME EVIL GENIUS HAD INVESTED DEEPLY IN THE PREPARATION OF THEIR prison. The captives had no contact whatsoever with the world, no way of knowing if it were night or day, or even the season—though it must be winter. The Palace was frigid. There was no privacy whatsoever. The Principate had to share facilities and space with his men. And with Pig Iron, because the Braunsknechts did not want the mule in their stables, where he might inspire uncomfortable questions. The mule’s presence was a statement, too. Someone wanted Doneto to know that in the eyes of the Grail Emperor a Principate of the Episcopal Collegium was of the same significance as a clever mule.
Not true, of course. But the Emperor’s clear contempt ground away at the Principate.
Yet there was iron behind Doneto’s arrogance and self-admiration. And some humanity as well. Doneto adapted to his company. Thirty sleeps into their confinement even Bo Biogna and Just Plain Joe could sit down with him and talk.
In the middle of his days, when his optimism was strongest, Doneto returned to his beginnings as a priest. So he said. Though everyone knew that members of the Collegium bought their positions. Few ever endured the workaday cares of the priesthood.
“He was born a bishop,” Pinkus Ghort said, making the point. “If you’re a Brothen from the right family and a second son, you start life as a bishop. He probably got his miter when he was fourteen.”
Else was amused. Here was Ghort being Ghort. Ghort spent more time with the Principate, toadying up, than did any three other captives. But he would not surrender his right to criticize.
Ghort said, “You need to work on Doneto more, Pipe. You’re never gonna get another chance like this. Remember, we could be out of here tomorrow. They won’t give us any warning.”
This was a unique opportunity to position himself. Doneto had offered him work in Brothe already.
Doneto’s notion was to pretend to keep Else at a distance, then ease him into a position where he could keep an eye on Bronte Doneto’s enemies.
Ghort had snapped up the plum, commanding Doneto’s lifeguard, already.
Else told him, “Don’t let it go to your head, Pinkus. You’re the third one this year. A whole lot of people don’t like this guy.”
“Oh, I’ll be careful. This is the kind of job I’ve been angling for all my life. This is Easy Street. No way I’m not gonna do the best job anybody ever did. And if we can get you set up in the right place, you can warn me whenever some shit is about to happen.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“I don’t like your tone, Pipe. It means I’m probably not gonna want to hear what you’re gonna say.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me. What I’m thinking is, if we do find ourselves in the situation the Principate wants to set up, then the information has to go both ways.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if I’m going to be your guy on the inside, you’re going to be my guy on the inside. I’ll need to look good sometimes, too. Unless you think you have to be one way about the whole thing.”
“Not me. God forbid. I’m just trying to set myself up with a comfortable life.”
“If we do it right, we can write both of us letters of marque.”
Ghort chuckled. “You ain’t as simple as you let on, are you, Pipe?”
BEFORE THEIR QUARTERS WERE CONVERTED THEY HAD ENJOYED AN INCARnation at the palace lumber rooms. There were heaps of tattered old books and records left over from the last century. Many dealt with the Truncella family, histories of generations long gone. They were of little use to anyone but Else, who used them to study western manuscript styles.
There were a few actual books mixed into the mess. Else found those educational. In a professional development sort of way.
Those written in the modern vernacular were not interesting. Mainly, they delved into the lives of Chaldarean saints, of which there were hosts. Information useful if you wanted to fit in, but of no practical value otherwise.
The majority of the real books were in Old Brothen, meticulously copied from texts first set down in classical times and interesting now because they opened marvelous windows into pasts never rewritten by the prejudices and ambitions of intervening ages.
Else got help from Bronte Doneto, who enjoyed teaching when he could find no loftier target for his energies. Doneto told Else, “These are copies of texts set down before the Chaldarean Confirmation. They’re in the formal Brothen of their time. Which is lucky for us. The formal language didn’t change as fast as the vulgate. But these are treatises on technical things. How to manage vineyards and wineries. How to manage latifundia, which were large commercial agricultural enterprises that included fig, olive, and citrus orchards, along with grain and ve
getable crops. They weren’t big on meat in those days, except for seafood. This one is a treatise on how to construct various engines, from wine and olive presses to artillery and siege machines. This one concerns the conduct of war. These are about the lives of the emperors and key personalities of their times.”
Doneto taught Else a smattering of classical Brothen. Else then spent most of his waking hours puzzling his way through the old books.
He set a precedent. He started a fad. Captivity was so dull that even Bo Biogna and Just Plain Joe were ready to do anything to stave off the boredom. Even if that meant learning, with the Principate doing most of the teaching.
“Pig Iron will be next,” Else predicted. “And he’ll learn faster than the rest of us.” He told an old Dreangerean story about teaching a camel to whistle, though he made it a mule instead of a camel.
Armed with what he was learning. Else would be able to spy on the mail of Dreanger’s enemies.
Gradually, as time passed, Else allowed himself to be drawn into the Principaté’s plans, but according to his own goals.
THE CAPTIVES HAD NO CLEAR NOTION OF THE LENGTH OF THEIR CAPTIVITY. At least three months, everyone agreed. Some thought it might be as much as five. Else was surprised that they managed to survive without becoming violent. That, likely, was due to how much space was available. And because despair never set in. Bronte Doneto never stopped believing that rescue or ransom was imminent.
Just Plain Joe was content. He told Else, “I never lived this good in my whole life. Look at this. I’m warm. I got plenny a food. I got frien’s. I got Pig Iron. An’ I’m even learnin’ how ta read an’ talk right.”
Joe’s dream did not end anytime soon. Inevitably, eventually, Bronte Doneto began to lose his confidence. Else wondered if there had not been a complete collapse of human nature in Plemenza.
It was impossible that news of Bronte Doneto’s whereabouts would not have reached people who cared.
Ghort suggested, “Maybe our boss has a big head. He’s a hundred eighty miles from home. Why would anybody recognize him?”
