by Glen Cook
Shagot suggested, “Keep your hands where I can see them. Unless you think that set of heads is one short and yours would complete it.”
“He’s soultaken,” Father Obilade whined. “Don’t defy him. He can’t be defeated. That old sword . . . It was forged back when the tyranny of the night ruled the world complete.”
“Thank you,” Shagot told him. “What the crone says is true. And this is true, too. The men you sent to murder my brother and me failed. They murdered Rodrigo Cologni’s bodyguards instead. These eight showed up while they were at it. They killed everybody but Cologni. They took him away with them. My brother and I pursued them. We had a contract with the Bruglioni. They refused to cooperate. So we took their heads, thinking we might earn a bonus by fulfilling the Bruglioni revenge for you.” Shagot used a toe to propel a head toward Paludan Bruglioni. It rolled over on its nose and changed course toward Gervase Saluda.
“What have you done?” Paludan’s plea was feeble and rhetorical.
“What demon rules your soul?” Father Obilade asked. “What ancient horror have you hauled into the modern age, into the heartland of the Episcopal faith?”
Shagot said, “You owe me two hundred gold ducats. Plus a bonus for avenging your dead.”
Paludan Bruglioni surrendered to the will of the night. “Obilade. Get the money the man wants. Don’t get into any mischief along the way. You understand me?”
The priest bowed. “Yes, sir.”
Shagot understood, too. “Excellent. And hurry. Because if that money doesn’t get here fast, with no treachery, people will die.”
Once Father Obilade was gone, Shagot kicked another head and said, “These Brotherhood people knew exactly what was supposed to happen in the Madhur Plaza. How could that be?”
“What have you done?” Paludan whined again.
I have shaken Brothe’s foundation stones, Shagot thought.
Never in all his life had he had so much impact upon others. Not even at the height of the sturlanger raids on the coasts of the Isle of Eights had so many people who had no idea who he was suffered so much because of his actions.
“I’m just trying to make a living,” Shagot replied. “I don’t think that requires me to be sacrificed to some local half-wit’s ambition.”
Father Obilade returned. He brought more than three hundred ducats in gold coins bearing the likenesses of dead Patriarchs. Shagot checked a few to make sure they were real. “Good. Good. I hope you gentlemen don’t resent the lesson in fair play.” He crooked a finger at the old priest. “Closer, Father. Closer.”
When the old man was close enough, Shagot leaned in to whisper, “These guys know what really happened, Padre. You’d better hike up your skirt and run.” In a voice that carried, he continued, “Thanks, everyone. Try not to be such a bunch of weasels, eh?”
Shagot got out of there before sleep could hammer him down.
Touched by the favor of the night, he managed to rejoin his brother before he collapsed.
Once sleep came, though, it would not withdraw until Svavar neared a state of panic. Could his brother possibly survive?
20. Khaurene, in the End of Connec
W
inter in the Connec was a season of worry. For those who tried to come to grips with what Arnhanders called the Black Mountain Massacre. Because the invaders insisted that that disaster was in no way their fault.
Well-meaning pilgrims had entered the Connec to help harried Episcopal coreligionists protect themselves from the predations of heretics who roasted babies and sacrificed virgins. Unless that went the other way around.
“That about sum up your position?” Count Raymone Garete flung at the obnoxious, insulting deformed hunchback of an envoy from Salpeno, Father Austen Rinpoche. “You couldn’t invent something more ridiculous? You could’ve accused us of having sexual congress with goats. Fool. Our intransigent apostasy and heresy is why there’s an active Episcopal church on every other corner in Khaurene. It’s why there are more real cathedrals in the End of Connec than there are in all of your piss-drinking Pail of Arnhand. We built those cathedrals, of course, so we’d have somewhere to snuggle with our goats.”
Duke Tormond tried to restrain the young noble. But Count Raymone was beyond restraint. Following his triumph over Baron Algres, Raymone’s voice would be loud in the councils of the Connec. “You’re speechless? A priest? Talk to me, priest. Name one Episcopal in the End of Connec who has suffered at the hands of the Seekers After Light.”
Gleefully, Father Rinpoche retorted, “Bishop Serifs of Antieux.”
Silence.
More silence.
Someone said, “Sweet Aaron on a jackass, the fool is serious.”
Count Raymone sneered, “The priest isn’t a fool. He’s a league beyond. He’s a complete idiot.”
Even the Great Vacillator, Duke Tormond, stared at Father Rinpoché like he thought the man was a half-wit reveling in his debility. “Are you serious, Father? That man was a thief. He abused his office. He was indifferent to the rights of others. He was a perjurer, a pederast, and a sodomite. There’s no end to the catalog of his crimes. Absent the protection of Sublime he would’ve been hung years ago. I did feel some sympathy for your mission until now. But we all know rats who deserve higher honors than Bishop Serifs.”
Count Raymone snapped, “Serifs was such a waste that Principate Bronte Doneto—the Patriarch’s own cousin—had him thrown off a cliff after they failed to rob and murder the people of Antieux.”
Father Rinpoché clung to his position.
Duke Tormond stood. He clasped his hands but let his arms hang. “I’m a good Episcopal, Father. I attend church every day. I never miss confession. I sent a letter to the Holy Father asking what more can possibly be expected. He hasn’t replied. Meantime, we’re here and, yet again, we’re being subjected to unfounded and trumped-up charges by men whose interest in God’s work is secondary to their hopes of plundering the Connec. Hear me, Rinpoche. In this hall, with you, is almost every man of substance in Khaurene. I challenge you to go among them and find one unbeliever.”
Not the wisest challenge, in Brother Candle’s view. He was there. And not alone in his inability to recognize the infallibility of Sublime V.
The Arnhander priest did not take the challenge. He refused to speak to it, or even to acknowledge it.
Rinpoché could only return to Salpeno and report that the Connec remained recalcitrant, intransigent, and that those agents of the Adversary, the Maysaleans, had gained hidden mastery. The sole practical answer appeared to be the one the Patriarch was pushing privately, a crusade to extinguish the Maysalean Heresy.
The powerful in Salpeno had no trouble accepting Father Rinpoche’s arguments. Most hungered for revenge, for plunder, and had little interest in any truth that got in their way. They had, as well, a feeble king unable to execute his royal duties while remaining equally incompetent at dying. Though his death would avail nothing. There was no crown prince.
That looked sweet to a spectrum of ambitious dukes, barons, and relations legitimate and otherwise.
It held an equally powerful appeal to the lords and knights of Santerin’s continental possessions, along their frontiers with Arnhand.
There were skirmishes and incursions almost every day, from down south where Tramaine bumped against the Connec all the way to the northernmost villages on the seacoast east of easternmost Argony. Local knights and garrisons did little to make life difficult for the aggressors. Members of the same families lived on both sides of the shifting border. Feudal obligations in the marches changed with every marriage, birth, death, and with the altering fortunes of war.
And a change of rulers made little difference in the lives of local people. Some peasants did not speak the language of either set of masters.
Every Arnhander family of substance had relatives overseas, in the crusader states. They sent their young men east to temper them in the ruthless struggle for control of the Holy Lands.
The young men took servants and foot soldiers and treasure with them.
Usually only the young men themselves returned—no longer young.
With so many strains upon it, it was insanity for Arnhand to listen to Sublime’s mad call for help punishing the Chaldareans of the Connec for their recalcitrance and the Connecten Seekers After Light for disrespecting God Himself.
Anne of Menand, mistress of Arnhand’s king, had two children by her lover. The eldest was a son, Regard. Regard was just fourteen but of sound mind and body and had a regal air. In normal times no one would consider him a candidate to replace his father. Legitimacy was a huge issue for the Arnhander nobility. But these were abnormal times. Dedicated schemers could get the past restructured to render Regard legitimate.
Anne had presented her favors to a select few outside the royal bedchamber as well, creating a circle of accomplices. The boy’s father was amenable to her strident efforts to have Regard designated Crown Prince. But powerful factions were arrayed behind rival candidates.
Anne of Menand was a schemer and manipulator and slut. She bedded men not only to manipulate them but because she was possessed by a huge enthusiasm for night sports. Yet she was a devout Chaldarean with a sincere belief in Patriarchal infallibility. If Sublime asked for troops to punish the apostate Connec, then Arnhand should produce those troops.
It was a measure of Anne’s standing that she managed to engineer a crusade of eighty knights and their entourages. The little army never reached the Connec, though. It turned back before the levees completed their obligations. Not once did it engage—or even sight—a heretic. But it did lose three dozen souls to disease and accident.
BROTHER CANDLE TRAVELED THE CONNEC, BRINGING HEART TO SEEKERS After Light who sensed a gathering storm. He visited the nobles of each town. They had to understand that they were obliged to protect everyone from foreign enemies. He reminded them that the jongleurs and poets called the Connec the Peaceful Kingdom. Connectens took pride in their ability to live in harmony.
It was a time of moral posturing. It was a time of absurd justifications, before the fact, of anticipated bad behaviors.
Sublime V issued frequent thunderous bulls denouncing all things Maysalean and most things traditionally Connecten. He seemed driven to alienate his flock.
The people of the Connec began to rally behind Immaculate II, who found sufficient fire to spew a few bulls of his own. Pro-Brothen priests, who had been unpopular before now, faced active hostility.
The sleepy Connec had begun to awaken. And was getting up cranky.
Brother Candle feared Sublime’s shortsighted greed would waken the whirlwind. He did not enjoy the increasingly bellicose nationalism churning through the Connec. It grew fat on the fear of bigger and fiercer armies coming to torment the Connec.
Wherever Brother Candle carried his message he saw city walls being heightened and strengthened. He saw castles being readied for siege. He saw local militias receiving instruction in the use of arms from men who were respected because they were veterans of the wars to liberate the Holy Lands. And everywhere he went he found that Tormond’s men had preceded him, asking people not to prepare for war. Brothe and Arnhand might find that provocative.
That reasoning left even pacifist Brother Candle bewildered.
No one outside Khaurene paid Duke Tormond any mind. The population plunged into preparations as if expecting Arnhander cannibals in tens of thousands as soon as the first leaves budded.
SPRING EASED INTO EARLY SUMMER. INVADERS PERSISTED IN THEIR FAILURE to appear. Duke Tormond floated the notion of an embassy to Brothe that would work out something with Sublime. Brother Candle was not present for the ferocious debate that followed. He was celebrating his own religion with the Maysalean community of Castreresone. But he heard about the raging arguments. Even Sublime’s Connection allies favored not sending anyone to Brothe. Mathe Richeneau, the recently appointed, newly arrived, Arnhand-born Bishop of Antieux, also suggested going slow. Sublime was certain to consider any approach an acknowledgment of his primacy.
Tormond’s advisers won that day but never made him understand that he could not just sit down and talk things out with Sublime. Being infallible, the Patriarch knew there was nothing to negotiate.
Tormond did hate committing to anything completely. And there was no arguing the fact that his style of rule, which he shared with his more recent ancestors, had worked for more than a century.
There was no invading army in the spring. There was no invading army during the summer. Preparations for war became less urgent, more relaxed, and, at the farthest removes from the northern frontier they ceased altogether.
Come summer Duke Tormond surrendered to his need to act. He sent an embassy to Salpeno to try to make peace with Arnhand. It failed. Then, as autumn gathered, Tormond surrendered to unreason again. He returned to his notion of opening a dialogue with Sublime.
This time no one could change his mind.
BROTHER CANDLE RETURNED TO KHAURENE JUST DAYS BEFORE THE NEWS came out. He was staying with a good Maysalean family, the Archimbaults, who were in the tanning trade. Raulet Archimbault feared the Duke’s decision would hurl the Connec over the edge of a precipice.
Seekers After Light customarily gathered in discussion groups in the evening, before the final meal of the day. That was taken late in the Connec, long after nightfall. A large group convened at the Archimbaults’ because everyone wanted to hear the Perfect. Familiar with the way Devedian and Dainshaukin minorities were abused by Brothen Episcopals, they were concerned about their own future. Sublime, clearly, intended to go beyond ranting about heretics and unbelievers.
Brother Candle said, “We’ve talked about this before, Raulet, so I understand you. But elucidate for the benefit of your guests, who may not be familiar with your thinking.”
Raulet Archimbault was uncomfortable as the focus of a group. Haltingly, he explained, “Just by sending an embassy to Brothe Tormond weakens the standing of the Connec.” He stopped.
Brother Candle encouraged him. “Go on. Tell us why.”
“Well, it says Tormond admits the Brothen Patriarch has a say in our affairs. That sets a bad precedent all by itself. Also, it diminishes the Patriarch at Viscesment. And he’s the legal Patriarch. Right?”
Brother Candle said, “Diminishing that man isn’t hard to do. How many of you—by show of hands—know who the anti-Patriarch is? See. Immaculate the Second, Brothers and Sisters. Those of you who do know most likely do because somebody tried to kill him last spring.”
“Pathetic,” Raulet said.
“Yes,” Brother Candle agreed. “And he’s supposed to be our Patriarch. The Patriarch who represents all Chaldareans. Arianist, Antast, Episcopal, Eastern Rite, Shaker, or Maysalean.” Most Maysaleans did consider themselves good Chaldareans, in the Antast mode. “He’s the Patriarch who’s supposed to stop the Five Families of Brothe from treating the Church as their own private pot at the end of the rainbow.”
“The thing I don’t understand,” Madame Archimbault said, “is why the Duke would do this despite his advisers. That doesn’t make sense.” Among Seekers After Light, women stood equal to men, with a full right to speak and question. “They must have explained everything to him.”
Brother Candle nodded. “Absolutely. Over and over. I was there once when Tormond heard it all, point by point. He said he understood. But, as all of you who have raised children know, you can’t make someone hear what he doesn’t want to hear.”
Scarre the Baker, asked, “Could he have been stricken mad?”
A little voice piped, “It must be the Night.”
Raulet offered, “Or Sublime’s god touched him. Maybe the Brothen Episcopal god agrees with Sublime about us.” Raulet was trying to make a joke but everybody took him seriously.
Brother Candle said, “I ought to get together with Bishop LeCroes and see what he thinks.”
“Unbelievable,” someone muttered.
Madame Arc
himbault inquired, “Will the men around Tormond interfere? Brother, you’ve said Brothe has no friends in Tormond’s court.”
“Not many, no. But Tormond’s men are loyal and honorable. They’ll do what they’re told once they know they can’t change his mind.”
Someone said, “What will Count Raymone do?”
“A critical question,” Brother Candle replied. “And one only Raymone Garete can answer. He doesn’t hide his disgust.”
Madame Archimbault observed, “Raymone is young. The young praise action for its own sake.”
The Maysalean Heresy appealed mainly to those who had left youth’s distractions behind.
Brother Candle accepted wine from his host’s daughter, Kedle, who was thrilled to be auditing the meeting. She was thirteen, a woman by some standards, but would never speak up while a Perfect was present.
Seekers After Light were convinced they were true Chaldareans. They claimed their teachings harkened back to those of Aaron, Eis, Lalitha, and the other Founders, before those became twisted and perverted by the successors of Josephus Alegiant and his clique. The god of the Arianists, and of the Episcopals who came after them, was actually the Great Adversary reproached by the Founders.
The Great Adversary had wrought a thousand deceptions while hiding amongst the Instrumentalities of the Night. It was impossible to untangle the skein of lies. Because there was always another lie in line.
Brother Candle relaxed and observed as the discussion drifted to reincarnation, which had leaked into the Maysalean Creed despite being an oriental concept.
The group wanted to examine the moral implications of reincarnation. Some thought rebirth gave you an out if you behaved badly. You could do your next incarnation as a makeup.
Brother Candle had not yet worked out where he stood regarding reincarnation. He found the idea comforting. Reincarnation meant a second chance to get life right. It was the Great Wheel of Life.
