The Tyranny of the Night: Book One of the Instrumentalities of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “I see. Convolution in the Brothen tradition. And Paludan Bruglioni isn’t a good employer.”

  “Correct. Don Inigo and I both cautioned him to restrain himself in your case. First, because he needs you desperately. Second, because we consider you more a loan than a pass along, his to do with as he pleases.”

  “Really?” Now what? He had met Inigo Arniena only in passing. The Don was a wizened little character vain enough to dye his hair black. Yet he enjoyed a joke, even at his own expense. He was less formal and stuffy than Salny Sayag.

  Else could see no reason for Don Inigo to extend special protection to a passing rogue he meant to plant on an enemy as part of a larger scheme.

  “The Don asked me to see if you won’t make that a literal truth.”

  “You’re going to have to be more direct.”

  “Long ago, when they were boys, Freido Bruglioni, Paludan’s father, disrespected Don Draco Arniena in a way that Paludan doesn’t know Don Inigo knows about. Don Inigo also knows the Bruglioni consider it a great joke. I’m not privy to the details myself. I do know that Don Draco swore to avenge the insult. Don Inigo promised his father on his deathbed that he would finish it. Last summer, when Don Inigo’s heart almost betrayed him, he settled on a scheme where the Arniena vote in the Collegium would undercut the Bruglioni at some critical point. Meantime, publicly, Don Inigo remains Paludan’s staunch ally.”

  “I think I begin to see.”

  “No doubt already being in a similar position on behalf of the Benedocto.”

  “Not them. Bronte Doneto.”

  “Who is an extension of the Patriarch, if you ask most people. No matter. The Don doesn’t want much from you that you won’t do anyway.”

  “So. This was why it was so easy for Principate Doneto to arrange to slide me in through the Bruglioni back door?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Any information you can acquire that will give the Don a chance to do the Bruglioni a bigger hurt in the public eye.”

  “Bigger?”

  “Bigger than backstabbing them in a vote in the Collegium. Best would be to discover something that would make the mob want to tear them apart.”

  “What a city. Of course. Since my Principate tells me that you don’t expect to reveal yourselves any time soon. Because until Rodrigo Cologni is replaced the Arniena vote isn’t crucial.”

  “The Patriarch will have to move quickly, just to forestall the idea that he might have been behind the murder.”

  “I thought the murderer was supposed to be a huge blond foreigner. If he wasn’t a Bruglioni.”

  “Either way, somebody killed a whole troop of Brotherhood veterans to get to Rodrigo Cologni. That’s a hard sell, Hecht. God Himself wouldn’t be interested enough to work that hard.”

  Else shrugged. “It seems nothing is unlikely here.”

  “It’s just bigger and more complex than what you’re used to. I was lost when I first got here. But it’s just people being people, only with a lot more enthusiasm. Well, that’s settled. Let’s get you ready to go.”

  ELSE WAS AMUSED. HERE HE WAS, ENTERING THE GREAT REARING UGLY limestone Bruglioni stronghold through the front gate. Rogoz left him there. “You want me to wait, Hecht?”

  “Be a waste of your time, wouldn’t it? I can find my way home.”

  “Take care, then. Some of these Bruglioni are creepy people.” Sayag did not mind the Bruglioni sentry overhearing.

  “You get used to creepy people.”

  Rogoz sneered and went away.

  Else followed the sentry into the Bruglioni citadel. That man turned him over to a nervous, skinny, short, shaggy little man who told him, “My name is Polo. I’m supposed to assist you as long as you’re here. You shouldn’t ever forget that I work for Paludan Bruglioni. You’ll see him in a minute.”

  Else considered his surroundings. Seedy described it in one quick, all-encapsulating word. No effort was being made to keep the place up. It felt creepy, as though the last fugitive tendrils of the night had not been harried out of this one corner of Brothe.

  “Is the Don a sorcerer?”

  Polo squeaked in surprise.

  “He’s not?”

  “No. If you mean Paludan. But that isn’t it. Nobody calls him the Don. Much as he’d love that.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  Polo looked around for something lurking in the shadows. “You aren’t Brothen, are you?”

  “Not even Firaldian. Why?”

  “Don is a title of respect. Given only to those who earn it. From here,” smacking his chest over his heart. “To the one who leads. By those who follow. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.” A similar tradition existed among the tribesmen of Peqaa and other remote regions of the Realm of Truth. Polo meant that the Bruglioni household did not consider Paludan Bruglioni a man who deserved to be called Don. “I do. Do I need to make a special effort with my appearance?”

  “Nobody would notice. You’re just another tradesman. One who uses a sword instead of a trowel or a hammer.”

  This half-ghostly Polo was nursing a grudge against his employers.

  What Else had learned about the Bruglioni while serving the Arniena had not impressed him. But he had not drawn as bleak a picture as Polo and the Bruglioni headquarters suggested.

  Was Polo some sort of provocateur?

  This was no life a man ought to live, every waking moment spent wrestling paranoia about the motives of everyone around you. Yet paranoia was bedrock beneath this mission. He could not survive without it.

  Later, Else said, “Tell me something, Polo. You said Paludan Bruglioni isn’t a sorcerer. Is anyone else? I feel the darkness. Like there’s an aspect of the Instrumentalities close to us.”

  “Others have said the same, sir. Possibly because the Bruglioni are so devoutly determined to have nothing to do with dark powers. They try to ignore their existence. Divino Bruglioni had to leave home when he chose the path that led him to become a member of the Collegium. They say they refuse to surrender to the Will of the Night.”

  The world could be confusing when the only truth available was the certainty that people would lie to you.

  “Time to see the man,” Polo announced.

  Else narrowed his focus. He became Piper Hecht, wanderer from the farthest marches of the Chaldarean world, an experienced soldier eager to find service in one of the great houses of Brothe.

  ELSE MADE A STRONG EFFORT TO SOUND HONEST. “THIS WASN’T MY IDEA. Don Inigo convinced me. He says he owes you, that you’ve suffered cruel reverses, and he wants to help. Also, he said that I have a better chance of getting ahead with the Bruglioni than with the Arniena.” Rogoz Sayag had advised him to appeal to the natural Bruglioni arrogance.

  Paludan Bruglioni muttered, “That makes sense.”

  Paludan Bruglioni was a handsome, darkly complexioned man with a heavy black mustache. He had begun to lose his hair. He was heavy without being fat. His eyes seemed lifeless, though that could be due to the emotional beating he had taken lately. His head was egg-shaped, with the thin end down. His ears lay close. His overall appearance suggested a man in his middle fifties.

  Paludan Bruglioni was a decade younger. The lamplight did not betray the floridity caused by prolonged, excessive drinking, or the scars left by the pustules from a disease picked up in Brothe’s sporting houses. He had a reputation for vanity and, supposedly, wore a mask when he went out.

  By lamplight he was a handsome, wealthy gentleman who was slightly tipsy. He might be in a bad mood for no immediately obvious reason.

  “You’re saying you want to step into my nephew Saldi’s boots as a favor to Inigo Arniena?”

  “The Don was good to me. He took me in when my prospects seemed bleak and he couldn’t afford to pay what I’m worth. By sending me here he feels he’s doing favors for you and me both.”

  Paludan scowled. Was there any chance that the man was as shallow and dull
as he appeared?

  Bruglioni glanced at the two men there with him, neither of whom had been introduced. One, though, had to be an uncle or older first cousin. He looked like an older Paludan. The other was pale, had graying ginger hair and a pallid, lantern-jawed death’s-head face more ravaged than Paludan’s.

  Neither man spoke.

  Else assumed the death’s-head to be Gervase Saluda, Paludan’s lifelong friend and reputed right hand.

  Else said, “I would’ve been happy where I was. Don Inigo is the sort of master men in my line dream about. But I had higher ambitions when I left Tusnet. In Duarnenia the future is fixed. Sooner or later, you’ll die in the Grand Marshes. Slowly and in great pain if the Sheard get hold of you. The pagans proclaim the tyranny of the night in the daytime. They celebrate their surrender to the will of the night.”

  Paludan smiled. Death’s-head consulted something in front of him. “You were with Grade Drocker and the Brotherhood during the Church’s adventure in the Connec last year?”

  “Yes. I was on my way to Brothe when I encountered a Brotherhood band recruiting mercenaries near Ralli.”

  “Where they quarry the marble.”

  “Yes. A Brotherhood captain named Veld Arnvolker was in charge. I’d accumulated some traveling companions on the road, mostly boys and runaways. They thought they wanted to be soldiers. It would be all romance and adventure. The Brotherhood offered good training, good pay, and what looked like a chance to show them the truth without them having to get killed finding it out. So when the kids wanted to sign on, I went along.”

  “And it was all too good to be true.”

  “Yes. Because fate jumped in right away.”

  “It’ll do that. Especially if things start going good.”

  “We got sent to the Connec. Idiot orders from the Patriarch and a brain-dead local bishop got my kids all killed. Only a few of us got out alive. Mostly Brotherhood guys, of course. You’d figure, wouldn’t you? And the bigwigs, naturally.”

  “That’s how life works.”

  “It does. But it’s not right. Anyway, there I was, on my own again. For a whole damned month before I even heard that Grade Drocker, who was supposed to be in charge—You know, I never saw that asshole once. Him and his Brotherhood buddies ran downriver, grabbed a ship and escaped by sea. Leaving the rest of us to look out for ourselves.”

  The skull-faced man said, “Several survivors of the Connecten adventure were involved the night we lost Gildeo, Acato, Saldi, and the others. Did you know that?”

  “No. I don’t know much about that. Just rumors. I never knew for sure which Brothers made it back. I don’t want anything to do with those people. One exposure was enough.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be interested in the incident? If you wanted to work here?”

  “I didn’t want to. Not then. And it didn’t affect the Arniena until Don Inigo saw the Bruglioni in tough circumstances and decided to show his regard for them.”

  Paludan asked, “You admit you’re a mercenary? That what you’re interested in is personal advancement?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I? The way I’ll get ahead is to be dedicated and loyal and do the best job I can. Don Inigo had my complete devotion. The Bruglioni will get it if you hire me. If Don Inigo had released me I might have left Brothe. Vondera Koterba is recruiting in Alameddine. He’s offering particularly good terms. But Don Inigo asked me to come here. So here I am. I’ll serve you till you release me or send me elsewhere.”

  What Else said encapsulated the supposed philosophy of the mercenary brotherhood in Firaldia. But it was just talk. Mercenaries and employers alike acknowledged the ideals only when it was convenient.

  It was not a time when large, permanent bands, captained by famous professionals, contracted as units. The last notorious company ended with the destruction of Adolf Black’s regiment in the Black Mountain Massacre.

  “Why should we trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t. I’m no different than any other prospective employee. You have to ask yourself, how can I hurt you?” According to Pinkus Ghort and others who had soldiered in Firaldia, Else understood that he had to conduct this interview on the paranoid edge. Firaldians who hired people to fight for them were often naive. Many fighters for hire were naive, too. And no one trusted anyone.

  Fortunes, loyalties, allegiances, all shifted quickly in modern Firaldia. Treachery was a fact of life. For some, it was a way of life.

  Insofar as Else Tage could see, the Firaldian Peninsula was where insanity went to retire. Nothing there made sense except at the most shallow level.

  Paludan Bruglioni said, “Gervase?”

  “Inigo Arniena and Salny Sayag recommend him so highly, you’d almost have to suspect them of wanting to get rid of him.”

  The third man said, “The Arniena have been having trouble meeting financial obligations because of the pirate raids.”

  Paludan grunted. “Those have hurt everybody.”

  “Them worse than anybody but the Benedocto. They aren’t getting their rents or fees.”

  “Is that true, Hecht? Are they trying to reduce their expenses?”

  “I don’t know. There was talk that things aren’t going well. But nothing concrete. Oh. There was something about selling an island. In the Vieran Sea. To the Sonsans. The Scoveletti family, I think. There’s some kind of marital connection.”

  That got some attention. “Sogyal?” Paludan asked. “They’re considering turning loose of Sogyal? Ha-ha!”

  Rogoz had said that a mention of selling that island might seal the deal. Else did not know why. “I don’t know. They didn’t talk about it when I was around. I overheard by accident. I think it’s a big secret that’s supposed to stay secret even after the deal is done. There’s a lot of worry about Dateon and Aparion finding out too soon.”

  “Ha! Sogyal. Those fools never have understood how valuable that island is.”

  Paludan Bruglioni launched a long, rambling tale of treachery, marriages of convenience, more treachery, dowries, and even more treachery, that put a particularly well-located and easily defended island into the hands of the Arniena halfway through the previous century. Sogyal was so strategically located that the Patriarch, both Emperors, all three mercantile republics, and several lesser kings and dukes had tried to buy it. The Arniena would not sell. Their intransigence had led to unsuccessful attempts to take the island by force as Dateon and Aparion strove toward supremacy on the Vieran Sea.

  Else just nodded, tried to look wise, and observed, “All Firaldian stories are long on treachery.”

  “This’s wonderful news,” Paludan said. “We can profit from knowing this. Gervase, Hecht looks like the man we want. Work out the details and get him set up. Let him have Polo permanently.”

  ELSE SPENT A DAY ROAMING THE BRUGLIONI CITADEL. NOTHING WAS OFF limits. “You don’t want to go down there, though,” Polo told Else when he considered a descent into the cellars.

  “Thought I could go anywhere.”

  “You can. I’m just hoping you won’t.”

  “Why not? What’s down there?”

  “Dirt and cobwebs and bad smells. Maybe a haunt or two. Nothing you’d want to find. Then a long climb back up.”

  “You’re sure about that, Polo?”

  “There’re childhood fears, too. The boogerman lives down there.”

  “The boogerman is real, Polo. If you’re in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and you’re not ready for the boogerman, you can find yourself in a world of trouble. It happens all the time where I come from.”

  “This is Brothe, sir. This city exists because the Instrumentalities of the Night are real. You don’t have to convince Brothens.”

  Else did descend the long stair.

  The Bruglioni cellars could have come straight out of a spooky story. They had cobwebs, vermin, slime in places, puddles of seepage, and an impressive range of unpleasant odors. And a few minor, unhappy spirits, hidden in the reservoirs of darkness.


  Else soon understood Polo’s reluctance to face the return climb.

  Polo puffed and told him, “In olden times the whole city had cellars under it. Still does, actually. Some way down deeper than this. Every ten or fifteen years there’s a cave-in somewhere when part of the underground collapses because of what all has been piled on top since.”

  “Bet some interesting antiquities turn up when that happens.”

  “The antiquities were all looted in antiquity. They never find anything but dead people. Some of them old-timers but mostly ones that haven’t been dead long at all.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning there’s a class of Brothen who use the old catacombs. For shelter. And to hide bodies they don’t want to turn up in the Teragi or an alley somewhere. Any loot down there will be something stolen in the last few days that is cooling off.”

  First glimpse of another side of the city, Else thought. A side that was always there, in every city, though always more so where the state was weaker. A side that had to exist so that there would be men to condemn to the galleys or the mines.

  PALUDAN BRUGLIONI SUMMONED ELSE TO AN EVENING MEETING FOUR DAYS after his arrival. Bruglioni’s quarters were austere enough for a monk.

  Several Bruglioni youngsters, with bodyguards, were there to meet the new man, whose as yet ill-defined duties included teaching them how not to end up like their kinsmen in the Mahdur Plaza. The bodyguards did not look comfortable. Only a glance was needed to see that they were not what they pretended.

  Paludan and Gervase Saluda made no introductions. The senior Bruglioni asked, “Have you been using your time wisely, Hecht?”

  “That’s a subjective question, but I think so. I’ve been getting to know this place and the people who make it work.”

  “I’ve seem him,” one of the young Bruglioni sneered. “Always with the cooks and servants. There’s a valuable pastime for a warrior.”