by Glen Cook
“If you’d known your staff you might have recognized Father Obilade’s inconsistent behavior beforehand. In which case, those who perished in the Madhur Plaza wouldn’t have been there in the first place. The man you discount, overlook, or take for granted will be the man who brings you down.”
“Be quiet,” Paludan told his youngsters. “You’re here to learn, nothing more.” The rage that drove him was close to the surface tonight.
The kid who had mouthed off was not yet sixteen. Dugo Bruglioni was a grandson of Soneral Bruglioni and the son of the oldest Bruglioni slain in the Madhur Plaza. Dugo bullied the staff. And did not do much else.
The help dared not fight back. Jobs were scarce and precious.
Paludan continued, “I don’t want to hear anybody talk. Hecht. How well do you know the city?”
“Not well at all, sir. The Arniena gave me no chance to explore. My role in their scheme was defense and instruction.”
“Learn your way around. Without attracting attention.”
“Yes, sir.” He was being told to go live his secret dreams, with pay.
“You worked with the Brotherhood in the Connec. Did you develop a passion for their ways?”
“None whatsoever. They’re arrogant, self-important fools. They deserved what they got. Though they were executing orders from the Patriarch. Which got modified every five minutes by the Bishop of Antieux. Serifs was such an idiot that nobody who didn’t know him will believe the truth. I hear Principate Doneto had him thrown off a cliff because he was such a miserable excuse for a priest.”
“I’ve heard that rumor myself,” Gervase said. “But it isn’t true. Bishop Serifs did die in a fall, but while trying to escape from a Braunsknechts officer after he’d been captured by the Emperor’s men. His death really was an accident.”
“Really?” Else said. “That is interesting.”
“Rumors make everything more exciting.”
Paludan asked, “So you have no love for the Brotherhood of War?”
“None. As an organization. There were individuals I found likable. Why?”
“The Brotherhood murdered six Bruglioni. Including my only sons, Acato and Gildeo. And several nephews, one of them the family’s hope for the future. If I fall down dead right now, Dugo will take over. And would ignore you and Gervase. And would put the family down the shitter in a year. Unless one of our country cousins has sense enough to cut his throat.”
Else said, “It may not fit the Bruglioni way but I have a suggestion.”
Paludan brightened dramatically. He did entertain genuine worries about the Bruglioni future. “Tell me.”
“Change the rules. Call in the best Bruglioni who’ve left the city.”
Paludan grunted, gave Else a dark look.
Else said, “See who’s doing the job out there. Bring them back where their competence can do the most good.”
Paludan and Gervase stared at Else like he was a genius talking with the mouth of a fool. Because there was a tacit understanding that Bruglioni who left the city freed themselves from their Brothen obligations.
Paludan said, “That has possibilities, Hecht. I’ll consider it.” With condescension. “Tell us how to avenge ourselves on the Brotherhood.”
“What? Revenge? The men responsible are dead.”
Paludan scowled at Else, possibly wondering why he was ignorant one moment and well informed the next. Was he not supposed to know? What about the heads? How about what the priest went through before he fell into the Teragi a half mile upstream from Castella dollas Pontellas? Everyone in the Bruglioni citadel knew all that. Which meant the details would be common knowledge outside the citadel, too.
Else said, “In your place, I’d worry more about protecting myself from the Brotherhood.”
“That’s a good point, Paludan,” Gervase said. “We don’t want to get into a war with them.”
Else suggested, “Give them the men who did the killing. Say they exceeded their orders.”
“That’s what they did do. They were just supposed to grab Rodrigo Cologni. So my boys could rescue Rodrigo from them. But the Brotherhood turned up. And Obilade’s patsies had minds of their own. They were like supernatural monsters. Anyway, I couldn’t give them up if I wanted. Obilade was the only one who knew how to get in touch.”
Gervase said, “We’re not going to have any choice about bringing family in from the country, Paludan. We need more people here with a stake in keeping family secrets.”
Paludan whined, “What happened? Ten minutes ago I was busting with plans. I was going to make Sublime ache. Now I’m facing a potential siege. I’m surrounded by people I can’t trust.”
Gordimer the Lion’s predecessor had used similar words to describe his own situation before his fall. Else said, “Don’t change your goals. Just change your plans to reflect your strengths and weaknesses.”
Gervase observed, “We have more weaknesses than strengths. We haven’t kept our swords sharp.”
Else said, “To plan, we need to know what our adversaries might be thinking. We need to know who our potential adversaries are. We need an honest assessment of our own strength. And firmly established goals.”
“Meaning?”
“We need to find out what the Brotherhood, the Cologni, the Patriarch, and the Collegium are up to. We need to know how they see the Bruglioni. You have an uncle in the Collegium. He has friends. The Bruglioni have a tradition of being major players on the Brothen stage. You have vast resources. Get them cataloged. Imagine what can be done with them.”
Else sensed that Paludan had received no training for the position he held. He was faking it and hoping for the best.
Paludan said, “Gervase, follow up on what Hecht’s saying. Real life seems to be closing in. Dugo, boys, come with me.” Paludan rose.
Dugo protested, “We were going out to . . .”
“Be quiet. Weren’t you listening? People who have a grudge against us are probably planning to do something about it. I don’t want you out where they can get you. Come along.”
Dugo pouted. It looked like he would have to survive a harsh, close call before he started listening.
GERVASE SALUDA SAID, “IF MY CHIN KEEPS HITTING MY CHEST IT’S BECAUSE I just witnessed the longest run of intelligent, responsible thinking ever seen from Paludan Bruglioni.”
“Oh?” Else said.
“Until Acato and Gildeo were killed he spouted the same nonsense as Dugo. Which is why Dugo was all confused.”
“How did he keep the family going, then?”
“Inertia. And he hasn’t. Not well. He never really had to be responsible, growing up. He’s always let things ride while he had a good time. He got away with it until the disaster in the Mahdur Plaza.”
“The world caught up?”
“It didn’t change who he is but it did make him realize that there’re challenges beyond just seeing if he can’t bed more women than his father did. Even so, he passed the work on to us. He has no faith in himself.”
“And?”
“You have to understand. Besides his character shortcomings, Paludan just isn’t very bright. He isn’t subtle. His preferred solution to any problem is to hit it with a hammer.”
“The way Dugo would.”
“The way Dugo would. Though now it seems he’s started to catch on. He knows that he has to start doing the right thing. For the family’s sake. Meantime, his major adviser, which would be me, might not be any smarter or subtler.”
“Really?”
“My genius and my gullibility got us into this. Sylvie Obilade manipulated me. I sold Paludan on the priest. Like his ideas were mine. I thought Obilade wanted the best for the Bruglioni.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Sure, he did. He was a good priest. But he wanted to be something more. He wanted to make the Church all-powerful, temporally as well as spiritually.”
“That doesn’t sound exciting.” Dreanger was not terrible but there were smaller princip
alities within the Realm of Peace where religious rule smothered everything.
“We need to make peace with the Church over Father Obilade.”
“Being a country boy from the far frontiers I’m obviously missing some critical local angle. Six members of the Bruglioni household were killed. The priest caused that. The men who murdered them were killed themselves.”
“So you think the scales are balanced?”
“Yes, actually.”
“The Church wouldn’t agree. If Church people screw you you’re supposed to take it with a smile and beg for more because it feels so good.”
“This will take getting used to.” It might be the sort of thing he could use to stir confusion and distract the Patriarch from organizing a new crusade. “I need to know Brothe better. Like Paludan said. Even taking into account the natural arrogance of people who believe God speaks with their mouths, there’s a lot of flawed thinking in this city.”
“Going out there could be dangerous.”
“How? Even if word is out that I’ve been hired nobody knows what I look like except a few Arniena. And they’re on our side.”
“I don’t know.”
“Uhm?”
“I’m not sure we should trust anybody out there, right now. I’m not sure why Paludan and I decided Rodrigo Cologni would defect. Father Obilade probably sold us. We know that wasn’t true, now. Rodrigo kept faith.”
“Treachery is the most popular sport in town. I’ll learn what I can, outside. You get Paludan to decide what he wants to accomplish so we can start planning. Find out if he wants to hire real swords. Those bodyguards were make-believe.”
“I don’t think he’ll stand for the extra expense. Right now we’re completely clear on who to blame if anything goes wrong.”
“I’ll do my utmost to ensure that your faith in me is justified.”
Else parted with Saluda still unsure of the man. Was he bright or dim? Was he manipulating Paludan Bruglioni? Was he Paludan’s dedicated friend?
BROTHE WAS UNIQUE AMONG CITIES ELSE HAD KNOWN. IT SHOWED ITS AGE much more than did even the oldest cities of Dreanger. There were ruins everywhere. In Dreanger they cleared the old away in favor of the new. In Dreanger the surviving ruins were not inside cities, they were out in the deserts and mountains and, as it had been from the most archaic times, they were occupied only by the dead.
The priests who had tended them had been massacred by Josephus Alegiant a thousand years ago. Alegiant’s successors had been massacred in turn by warriors of the Praman Conquest five hundred years later.
Reminders of the glory days of the Old Empire were everywhere, usually overgrown by creeping vines and brush. Remnants of triumphal arches still spanned the streets. Weeds and brush grew atop them. Else wondered where the soil came from.
Today’s Brothe stood on ground ten to twenty feet higher than it had been in antiquity. In places the old low ground lay buried even deeper.
In Brothe the past was as omnipresent and intrusive as the Instrumentalities of the Night in the Holy Lands. It meant more here than elsewhere. Brothe’s yesterdays defined its todays.
Sublime enjoyed local popular support because people thought he might resurrect the ancient glories.
In Brothe even the poorest of the native poor worshiped the city’s past glories. And seemed indifferent to its present.
Yesterday’s toppled memorials loomed large in the lives of squatters and drifters.
Poverty was ubiquitous, too. But that did not touch Else. Poverty and misery were the natural state of humanity wherever he went.
ELSE STROLLED AROUND IN WHAT HE HOPED LOOKED LIKE RANDOM RAMbles. He noticed no obvious tail. Which might mean that someone with superb skills had been assigned to track him. Or someone with a supernatural assist.
He did not count on his new employer not to spy on him. He would never allow a stranger deep into his world as easily as he had gotten into that of the Bruglioni.
Else drew dark looks wherever he went. He did not understand. He did note that other foreigners drew equally malignant attention, though.
He had been on his own a long time. Had he forgotten a critical detail of his contact regime? Could life’s vicissitudes have claimed Gordimer’s local agents? He knew no names, just places to visit. The embassy of the Kaif of al-Minphet was to be approached only in extreme circumstance. A sailor’s tavern on the riverfront, as far downstream as you could go and still be inside the wall, was just too far away. The only convenient contact resided inside the Devedian quarter.
Brothe was a vast sprawl south of the Teragi. It seemed to go on forever.
“Hey, Pipe! Piper Hecht! How the hell you doing, asshole?”
Pinkus Ghort jogged across the street, dodging between donkeys and camels, oxcarts, dog carts, and goat carts. Brothe’s streets were busier than those of al-Qarn. And twice as ripe. Little effort was made to clean up after the animals. Else had seen some amazing shit drifts.
“Ghort! You been following me?”
“No. Shit. Man. It’s pure coincidence. I was just heading over to the . . . How the hell are you doing?”
“As good as could be hoped, I guess.”
“They get you in over there yet?”
“In?”
“The Bruglioni thing.”
Curious. “They don’t keep you in the know?”
“I’ve been out of town. There was a problem up the road that Doneto needed handled. I got back last night. So are you in?”
“I think. I’m worried about how easy it was, though. I can’t believe anybody is as dimwitted as those people let on.”
“Believe it. This is the town where dumb comes to stay. Two-thirds of them still think they rule the world. Basically, the whole damn town has their heads up their asses.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
“We need to work out a way to communicate.”
“I know where the Principate lives.”
“How do we get a message to you?”
Else considered briefly. “I can’t imagine an instance where you’d need to. Can you?”
“Uh . . . Maybe you’re right. But you’ll have to make contact sometime. Just so we can keep each other posted.”
Ghort had a point. Ghort was supposed to be his eyes inside Doneto’s establishment. “That shouldn’t be hard. I don’t suffer from excessive supervision. My job hasn’t been defined yet. Paludan wants to hurt the Brotherhood because he thinks they killed his sons. Gervase is afraid the Brotherhood might come after the Bruglioni because of what happened to their men.”
Ghort eyed Else’s head. “You going to do something about your hair?”
“What? Why? Like what?”
“Half the nasty folks in Brothe are looking for big foreigners with long blond hair. Two were involved in the debacle you just mentioned. If they get close and bother to think, they’ll know you aren’t who they’re looking for. But suppose you run into idiots?”
“Well. Now I know why I keep getting those evil looks.”
“Those are probably just because you’re you.”
“No doubt. I have work to do. I’ll see you sometime.”
For a moment Ghort looked hurt. “Yeah. Later.”
“Say hi to Bo and Joe. And Pig Iron.”
“Yeah.”
Else got away before Ghort could delay him. Principate Doneto was not going to be pleased. He had given Ghort very little about the Bruglioni and nothing about the Arniena.
Let the man stew.
Else wandered aimlessly. Just in case. No point leading Ghort to one of his contacts. He listened to people. He heard little but everyday arguments, whining, complaints and indifference to squabbles on high. The politics that mattered at street level involved next meals. And Colors.
There was a great deal of anticipation of something called the Summer Invitational Games, when chariot racing teams from throughout Chaldarean Firaldia would participate in a huge elimination contest. The Colors would be out in st
rength, then.
Else’s ramble took him to the south bank of the Teragi River, half a mile above the place where Father Obilade had been introduced to the Sacred Flood. In pre-Chaldarean times the river had been considered a goddess in its own right, harboring within her bosom a host of spirits, some quite wicked, all of which had to be appeased. The goddess was gone, now, but not so all of the dark sprites and nymphs and water horses who had attended her.
The Brothen ancients had done well, coming to terms with the Instrumentalities of the Night. The entire waterfront had been built up in a way that revealed ages of complete confidence that the river would not get out of control. Embankments constructed of huge blocks of dressed stone rose high enough that the water level could rise another twenty-five feet before there was a need to worry.
Else strolled downriver, along the top of the embankment, admiring the work of the ancient engineers. He was confident today’s Brothens couldn’t manage anything like this, if only for lack of will and energy. He had sensed a paucity of those commodities in the modern tribe.
He was impressed by the bridges, both in their number and their engineering. Each was a monument likely to last forever. And there was nowhere one had to walk more than a third of a mile to make a crossing. Above Castella dollas Pontellas, as it turned out.
The whole would have been immensely picturesque. Without the swarms of people and animals and vehicles cluttering the picture.
Else settled himself on a stone block atop the embankment, at a point where he could see Krois on its stone-faced island, the Castella dollas Pontellas and its six little bridges arching over an arm of the Teragi that served as its moat, and, farther left, the immense, massive dignity of the Chiaro Palace, the spiritual heart of the Episcopal strain of Chaldareanism. His was a vantage sought by many. When Else sat down he did so amongst a dozen fellow spectators who were besieged by street vendors selling purported holy souvenirs, hot sausages, and sweet cakes.
Sitting there, those three grand structures so close he could make out the streaks of pigeon droppings down their dun flanks, Else first felt some awe of western civilization. What were these buildings but the greatest ghosts of the glory that had been?
The fortress Krois, out in the midst of the flood, had stood there for twelve centuries. It began construction before the birth of the oldest of the Chaldarean founders. It had been decreed by a Brothen emperor uninterested in becoming a victim of the mob, and after that had befallen several of his most immediate predecessors. A later emperor, in the end days of the Old Empire, bequeathed Krois to the Church.
