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

by Glen Cook

  “All right.” Else told Consent, “Thank you, Titus. Stay in touch. I’ll have another job for you soon. It’ll pay better.”

  SERGEANT BECHTER HAD BECOME ELSE’S GUIDE TO THE CASTELLA DOLLAS Pontellas. “You didn’t have to run, Captain. The others will take their time.”

  “What’s happening? I got the message secondhand. Polo made it sound earthshaking.”

  “That may be. I don’t know. The way it’s being handled suggests there’s been a serious defeat somewhere, though.”

  “Does that make sense? Where is any fighting going on? In Direcia?”

  “You’ll just have to wait. Like the rest of us.”

  “But I’m a special guy,” Else protested, borrowing from Pinkus Ghort’s manual of personal style.

  “Blood and turnips, Brother Hecht. I couldn’t tell you if I loved you. Nobody told me.”

  “Probably because they can’t trust you to keep marginal types like me in the dark with the mushrooms.”

  “Sergeant Unreliable. That’s what they call me. Go ahead. Take advantage.”

  “Huh?”

  “Isn’t the food the real reason you charged right over? Because the first arrivals get all the best?”

  Else laughed, but confessed, “I came in a hurry because I thought it would be expected of me.”

  “The men involved here take a relaxed attitude toward things everything professional soldiers hold dear. Notably, punctuality and discipline.”

  No startling revelation, that. The local nonprofessionals tended to think of war as a sport. Despite evidence left by the late pirate raid.

  Else’s respect for the masters of the Five Families and Collegium, was failing. Paludan Bruglioni was not unique in his mental and moral malaise.

  He did fill up on the best food.

  A NEW FACE ACCOMPANIED GRADE DROCKER WHEN THE SORCERER ARrived, limping. Drocker seated himself, straining against his pain. His companion faced the assembly. “I’m Voltor Wilbe. From the Special Office at the Father House. Will you all please stand?”

  Else was not surprised. Chaldareans prayed before, during, and after everything they did collectively.

  Wilbe said, “Follow me in the Rite of Abjuration.”

  Startled murmurs.

  Else worried. What was a Rite of Abjuration?

  One of the Emperor’s generals demanded, “What the hell is that?”

  Irked, Wilbe explained, “The Rite of Abjuration. Created by the Special Office. It lets good Chaldareans formally renounce the Great Adversary and the Tyranny of the Night.”

  The general snorted his contempt.

  The Rite of Abjuration was a responsorial. Voltor Wilbe chanted. His audience repeated his chant, renouncing everything to do with the Adversary and all things of the Night.

  When Wilbe chanted, “I renounce the Tyranny of the Night. I renounce the Instrumentalities of the Night,” responses were almost non-existent. The clerics said nothing at all. Wilbe was nonplussed.

  Wrong crowd, Else thought. Even Grade Drocker failed to participate. By common standards God Himself was an Instrumentality of the Night.

  “Pardon me,” Wilbe said. “I got carried away. I just want to banish any dark spirits.”

  “They’re gone,” Drocker growled. “Get on with it.”

  “Yes, sir. Gentlemen, there’s been a sea battle. It took place in the strait between Penalt and Dole Hemoc.” Wilbe seemed to expect his audience to know the geography. “It involved the fleet bound here from Staklirhod. It was an accidental encounter that became a running battle that lasted several days and involved ships from Sonsa, Dateon, Vantrad, Triamolin, the Eastern Empire, and our own warships at the end. Initially, the enemy was a Lucidian fleet carrying troops to Calzir.”

  “Silence!” Grade Drocker bellowed into chatter beginning to interfere with Wilbe’s report. “This will affect our planning.” Drocker’s outburst had a potent impact. Even members of the Collegium shut up.

  Voltor Wilbe detailed a battle that had been a long time in the making.

  Naval commanders in the Eastern Empire and Crusader states of Vantrad and Triamolin began to suspect the Lucidians of preparing a naval adventure over a year ago. Ships, troops, and supplies were collecting in several ports. There was speculation about an attempt to invade Staklirhod. Scout ships prowled the Lucidian coast. Sea skirmishes ensued. The Lucidians wanted their intentions kept veiled.

  The mercantile republics sent warships to protect their merchantmen and properties when the Calzirans started raiding. Which remained untouched by Calzirans, who focused on the Church.

  But Pramans on the scores of small islands in the eastern Mother Sea tried to take advantage of the confusion farther west. They began attacking Chaldarean shipping. The mercantile republics objected.

  Else understood before Wilbe explained. There was an inevitability at work. The Lucidian fleet, once it sailed, carried five thousand veteran soldiers, with horses and equipment, weapons and supplies, all destined for al-Healta in Calzir.

  So. Lucidia started getting ready to help Calzir long before the Calziran rabble began assaulting the Episcopal Church.

  Principaté Donel Madisetti ran out of patience. “What does that have to do with us? Where does the Brotherhood come in?”

  “Your Grace, the Brotherhood fleet became involved because it turned up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  A pickup gang of Chaldarean warships, mostly small but fast, began harassing the Lucidians as soon as they put to sea. The Brotherhood fleet got involved because the mess outbound from Lucidia got in their way when they were trying to sneak through to Brothe without being noticed. The Lucidians were trying to sneak, too.

  The circus sounded like insanity under oars—coupled with the kind of coincidence the Instrumentalities of the Night conjured for their own amusement.

  The appearance of the Brotherhood force doomed the Lucidians. Tide and current carried their older, weaker, smaller ships toward the Chaldareans.

  But tide and current carried the Chaldareans as well, around the cape of Dole Hemoc, into the path of a Dreangerean fleet also intent on sneaking through those islands. It, too, was carrying aid to Calzir.

  The Instrumentalities of the Night just kept compounding the joke.

  Only two Brotherhood ships escaped. Brother Wilbe was aboard one of those. The Praman survivors sailed on to Calzir. Wilbe said, “We shadowed them. They made landfall near al-Stikla, on the east coast of Calzir. The Lucidians disembarked there. The Dreangereans and some Lucidians went on to al-Healta. We couldn’t determine how strong they still were. The Dreangereans’ seamanship was awful.”

  Else offered a silent prayer on behalf of those Sha-lug who had perished. Gordimer built his fleet too fast. Its sailors hadn’t had time to learn. Dreanger was last a naval power before the rise of the Old Empire.

  Wilbe said, “There was a powerful sorcerer with their fleet. His presence made the difference.”

  This got uglier by the second.

  He had to lead a major force against er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen?

  He would fight Lucidians and Calzirans only. Weakening the Lucidians would benefit the kaifate of al-Minphet.

  At some point, unannounced, the Emperor drifted in. He remained in the background, small, silent, unnoticed until he declared, “This isn’t a disaster. Unless you didn’t get away. Adjust your thinking to the new reality.” He indicated the wall map that showed only Calzir, Alameddine’s cantonments, and the marches of several small principalities bordering those two. “We block the passes through the Vaillarentiglia Mountains. Here. Here. Here. We blockade their harbors. Their crops are going to come in short. Fishing will stop because their fishermen and boats didn’t come back. Prefamine conditions will obtain by winter’s start. Burdening Calzir with thousands of unproductive soldiers and animals will hasten the bad times. The Lucidians and Dreangereans won’t be able to import food.”

  “Why?” one of the Principatés asked.

  “Br
other Wilbe said they offended Sonsa, Dateon, the Eastern Empire, Vantrad, Triamolin, and Staklirhod. All those sovereignties will be watching for a chance to even scores.”

  Else studied the big map intently. And saw a potential Praman disaster much bigger than that festering in the Emperor’s mind. Johannes was not looking at Calzir as a whole.

  Someone, with the stink of er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen on him, had plotted and schemed, pulled strings and machinated, until he was sure he had engineered a situation where Sublime and his Episcopal brethren would become bogged down in their own quarter of the world, unable to make themselves obnoxious in Dreanger or the Holy Lands.

  But—

  Er-Rashal’s dream was about to become a nightmare. That chance meeting of fleets had killed any chance that Patriarchal and Imperial forces could be lured into a huge ambush. The Praman allies, despite their victory at sea, were caught in a bottle. And Else suspected that they would not realize that before the hunger started.

  Else glared at the map. He saw nothing but disaster for the Faithful. Hansel was too pessimistic.

  Unless er-Rashal did have some deep, unfathomable scheme proceeding, he had clevered himself into the loss of two fleets and two armies of seasoned soldiers. Unless defeat was part of the plan.

  Else still had no idea why er-Rashal had wanted the mummies from Andesqueluz.

  Was er-Rashal as uncomfortable with him as Gordimer was? Gordimer issued orders. Er-Rashal instigated them. Gordimer would not be interested in mummies. But he would not be heartbroken if a potential rival failed while trying to bring in a collection of old bones.

  “Captain Hecht?”

  “Your Grace? I’m sorry.” Principaté Divino had closed in on Else. “That map is trying to tell me something. But I’m not hearing what it has to say. It’s something bone obvious.”

  “Nobody else is spewing ideas like a holiday firework.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. If it was obvious everybody would see it.”

  “Tell me what you see. When you see it. And what you think. Because I don’t see this new situation benefiting the Bruglioni. Or anyone underwriting the city regiment.”

  “I disagree. Nobody’s contributing anything but money. It isn’t like an actual member of one of the Five Families might actually find himself face-to-face with the actual possibility of actually getting hurt.”

  “Your cynicism is worthy of a born Brothen, Captain Hecht. But.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Are we in a bad way? Regarding Sublime’s grand adventure?”

  “I can’t give you the answer you lust after in your heart of hearts. We’re at the mercy of what the top people decide. The Unbeliever have behaved stupidly. They should’ve conserved their forces. They should’ve turned back and let Calzir fend for itself.”

  Principaté Doneto eyed Else uncertainly. “Explain.”

  “The Lucidians and Dreangereans wasted a big part of their naval power. They wanted to be able to challenge the western fleets. Or that of the Eastern Empire. Worse than them losing their ships, though, is them losing their best soldiers and sailors when we have a Patriarch who wants another Crusade.”

  “I guess I don’t have a military mind. All I see is how those troops will make it tougher for us in Calzir.”

  “Of course. That’s their mission. But we’ll destroy them, ships and men. The time and treasure invested in them will have been wasted. They won’t be there when the crusaders arrive. Unless Sublime or Hansel make some boneheaded decisions of their own.”

  There was a stir. Principaté Doneto said, “Excuse me. I have to go. The Patriarch is here.”

  Sublime did make a surprise appearance. He contributed nothing. He went away twenty minutes later. Else was disappointed. For years he had heard the Patriarch built up as a great horned and hoofed demon. This was a half-bald, squinty, pinch-mouthed pudgeball who looked more like a dull shopkeeper than a powerful, lunatic religious warlord. He did not seem able to understand what was going on here.

  Well, he had been a compromise candidate. Which was why the Church could not now afford his overseas ambitions.

  Later, Principaté Divino Bruglioni insisted that what the Patriarch showed publicly was a persona meant to disarm those who did not know him.

  Else fixed the man’s appearance in mind. Perhaps Honario Benedocto, like Rodrigo Cologni, slipped away to appraise the tenders of the Adversary in person, in disguise. The bodyguards would give him away.

  He had no idea why the idea seemed obvious to him but no one else. Everything was right there, in the great map. Everything you needed to know to destroy Calzir and those good soldiers sent to defend that barren realm.

  Else asked around. Hardly anyone could name the Mafti al-Araj el-Arak, or any prince or warlord of Calzir. The few who had visited it said Calzir was a realm of chaos, mostly small states run by petty warlords. Much like the Chaldarean stretches of Firaldia.

  LYING WITH ANNA TRAPPED IN HIS ARMS, SATED, ELSE WHISPERED, “YOU put new charms and fetishes on the doors and windows.”

  “Something kept trying to get in. The charm maker didn’t believe it could happen here. But she took my money.”

  “Can’t happen in Brothe?”

  “Exactly.”

  “They’re fools.”

  “You’d think it doesn’t get dark at night.”

  “Are the charms any good?”

  “I picked a woman with good references.”

  “Who doesn’t take her clients’ fears seriously.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday. Sonsa was no den of virtue, darling.”

  “Good.”

  “You think it’s because of you? Does somebody want to spy on me in order to spy on you?”

  He could not assure her otherwise.

  “Oh, my! The serpent is still alive.” She reached back and squeezed him. “Well, woman’s work is never done. But I’ll tame the monster yet.”

  Else had known just one woman before Anna Mozilla. His wife. She submitted. She endured because that was her lot and duty. She did not become involved.

  Anna was always involved, absolutely and completely. Frequently more so than he was. She claimed, “I would’ve made a great whore. If I could do it with men I don’t know. Because I’d go twenty times a day if you could keep up.”

  Else protested, “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “You were never that young, mister. Quit talking. Start doing.”

  ELSE SUPPOSED THAT FERRIS RENFROW WOULD WATCH THE WIDOW Mozilla, who had led her neighbors to believe that she was an immigrant from Aparion. Which they thought a lie. They thought she hailed from farther north, somewhere in the southern marches of the Grail Empire. It was at Anna’s house that Else always shed those who followed him. Or left them afraid that he had.

  He went nowhere that night. Nowhere that Anna Mozilla did not take him.

  He began his rounds immediately after returning to the Bruglioni citadel. After dealing with several minor annoyances, he snapped, “You have to figure these things out for yourself, Mr. Phone. I won’t be here to think for you forever.”

  Madam Ristoti would not be cowed. “Mr. Hecht. What about my request for more help? I have too many mouths to fill and too few hands to do the filling.”

  “You’re allowed three new people. You know what you need. You hire them. Don’t thank me. Thank my Deve accountant. He can talk Paludan into anything. Paludan thinks numbers are magic. You also get a sixty percent increase in your purchasing budget. So serve something besides turnip stew.”

  Madam Ristoti grinned. “They liked that, did they?”

  “Exactly as much as you expected.”

  “A rare show of sympathy, then.”

  “Sympathy had nothing to do with it. Uncle Divino told Paludan that he was going to lose staff if he fed them that slop. The city is getting ready to go to war. There are alternate opportunities for the working classes.”

  “There you are, sir.”

  “Polo. I
wondered how long it would take.”

  “Sir?” Polo did not understand that his allegiance to Principaté Bruglioni was obvious.

  “It’s all right,” Else said.

  “Uh . . . Paludan wants to see you. He isn’t happy. But I don’t think it’s your fault.”

  “Guess we’d better see what he wants, then.”

  The citadel had changed. Cleaning was nearly complete. Cosmetic restoration was well underway. Halls that had been gloomy and barren of human enterprise swarmed with rustic Bruglioni returnees.

  Polo led the way to Paludan’s personal suite. He whispered, “His mistress might be there. Pretend not to see her.”

  “He has a mistress?” Else had discounted the rumors because he thought there would have been more talk if they were true.

  “Everybody gets a mistress once he reaches a certain station. It’s one of the ornaments of status. The higher your status, the finer your mistress. When you get real big, you have two mistresses. The Patriarch has three! They’ve given him four or five children. But the cognoscenti think he prefers boys.”

  “Aren’t priests supposed to be celibate?”

  “That’s a rule that’ll be honored only in the breech until the Carillon of Judgment.”

  “Really? Where do the women come from?” Why did Rodrigo Cologni not take himself a few mistresses? He would be alive today.

  Polo shrugged. “Wherever a man finds them. Principaté Doneto sleeps with Carmella Dometia, the wife of his man Gondolfo. He’s been doing that since Carmella was twelve. He arranged her marriage. He fathered both of her children. He makes sure that Gondolfo’s life is good, though Gondolfo spends most of it as the Benedocto factor in the Eastern Empire. Where, no doubt, he has a mistress of his own.”

  Polo added, “And, like soldiers, women also come to Brothe seeking their fortunes.”

  “So there’s no shortage of exploitable workers, soldiers, or sluts.”

  Polo felt no empathy. “Men sell their muscle. Women sell their sex. If they’re beautiful, personable, and can please a man, they’ll do well.” He rapped on Paludan’s door. “Polo, sir. With Captain Hecht.” Hearing an invitation that Else did not, Polo opened the door.

  If Paludan had a woman with him he had disguised her cleverly. “Captain Hecht. Thanks for coming.” Like Else had a choice.