by Glen Cook
Paludan had begun accumulating people skills, despite himself.
“Sir.”
“The sad day has come. The one I wasn’t looking forward to but which I can’t prevent.”
“Sir?”
“Divino says it’s time to move you. So you can concentrate on getting ready for the war. I don’t want you to go. That’ll leave me out of excuses. Uncle Divino will throw your name in my face every time I let something slide.”
“All I ever did was what you hired me to do.”
“Sure. And it’s all turned out for the best.”
“I hope so.”
Paludan pulled himself together. What he had to say was difficult. “We’ll miss you, Captain. I never found your presence comfortable but it was always positive. You injected hope and ambition into the family. That was a precious gift. Go to the Collegium confident that I’ll behave like a grown-up with real responsibilities.”
Else nodded. “Of course.”
“And thank you for not creating a situation that would’ve cost me my only real friend. You had him in your power.”
Well. Paludan could strike the occasional spark of surprise.
“I did what seemed best. I’ve enjoyed my stay here. The challenges were tough but not insurmountable.”
“Your new job will present challenges you’re better suited to handle.”
“It’s the work I was raised and trained to do, sir. Just between us, though, I don’t enjoy it. Though I am good at it.”
“You’ll make your mark. Here. Take this. A mark of my gratitude for awakening this house.” Paludan handed him a doeskin bag. “Myself, in particular.”
“Thank you, sir. Though I’m not sure it’s deserved.”
Paludan shrugged. “Be that as it may. Polo! Come here.”
“Sir?”
“Get ready to move. There’s a major planning meeting this afternoon. Uncle Divino wants Captain Hecht settled in beforehand.”
Else was not surprised that Polo would accompany him. That colorless little man would be within a stone’s throw as long as Piper Hecht was involved with Principaté Bruglioni and the Collegium.
ELSE CONSIDERED THE DOESKIN PURSE WHILE POLO FINISHED LOADING their possessions. He eased off the drawstrings carefully.
“How much did he give you?” Polo asked.
“There’s some of those tiny little gold pieces, like fish scales. And a handful of silver. All of it foreign.”
Polo grinned. “He didn’t change all his stripes, did he?”
Else offered Polo two silver coins and one little gold piece no more substantial than a scale off a carp. Polo made them vanish instantly. He said, “Paludan doesn’t know but I’ve been working on this since yesterday. That’s when the Principaté told me we’d be moving.”
“Which would be where?”
“The Chiaro Palace. Isn’t it amazing?” Polo babbled about the Chiaro Palace: vast, rich, labyrinthine, a city curled up inside the Mother City. A holy city well and truly saturated with everything unholy.
Else dug out the one item the purse must have been intended to convey.
That was a plain gold ring. Or, not so plain, he discovered as he turned it in the available light.
Characters were engraved on the ring. They could be seen only when the light struck it at certain angles. When held just right those characters stood out boldly, in black, as though in calligraphy.
A magic ring?
Certainly. But what kind of magic ring? It came without instructions. Maybe he was not supposed to notice.
Its ultimate source must be Divino Bruglioni. But why so obscure a means of delivery?
Perhaps Principaté Divino was worried that someone inappropriate would notice if the ring changed hands another way. Though Else was pretty sure that he was not supposed to notice the engraving. Maybe nobody who lacked a special wrist amulet would. Or maybe the ring was just another lump of gold and the engraving had to do with plighted troth five hundred years ago.
“What’s so fascinating about that ring, sir?”
“I’m not sure. It’s relaxing, fiddling with it.”
“Oh. Clemency III used one of those big purple freshwater pearls. And my father had a smooth round stone from the Holy Lands. So maybe it makes sense.”
“It’s well worn. I’m not the first to play with it.” He started to drop it into a pocket. And got the distinct impression that it did not want that.
He slid it onto the ring finger of his left hand, which seemed to satisfy it.
THE CHIARO PALACE WAS VAST, A SMALL CITY IN ITSELF. ELSE’S NEW SUITE was a dozen times the size of what he had enjoyed in the Bruglioni citadel.
“These rooms are huge, Polo! Nomad tribes could camp in here.” It was too big. It made him uncomfortable.
He did like being so close to the wellspring of western power, just a stone’s throw from the mad Patriarch.
He was where Gordimer and er-Rashal could have hoped he would be only in their wildest imaginings.
He wandered the apartment in search of obvious wrongness. He found nothing. But he had expected to find nothing. These people would be subtle.
“Polo, see about stocking our larder. I’m going to lie down till I have to go show the Patriarch how to conquer the world.”
Polo suggested, “We could have your woman friend come in to cook. She could live in.”
“I don’t think so.”
“There’re baths. If you want to use them.” Polo leered.
The Chiaro Palace baths were legendary.
“Really?” Else suspected that, like most things ordinary people never saw, the Chiaro baths were much less wicked than imagined. “You’ll have to show me later.”
“I’m only saying. I don’t know my way around. I’ve only been here once, when Principaté Bruglioni had me come see the apartment.”
Else prowled the suite again, paying special attention to the room Polo had designated his work area. He wanted Polo out of the way. “Get busy with the food and supplies situation.”
How often would he get to see Anna, now? Success brought its own complications.
ELSE MADE HIMSELF COMFORTABLE IN HIS NEW WORKSPACE. HE STUDIED the ring from Paludan’s purse. The gift made him nervous. If gift it was. Might Paludan have been unaware of its presence?
Magic rings lurked large in folklore and legend alike. They served no one well.
Rings of power figured in the myths of the pre-Chaldarean cults of the north and of the cold swamps whence Piper Hecht supposedly sprang. Else learned what he could about that far culture whenever he had a chance. Someone asked him about his homeland almost daily, mostly out of curiosity. He dared not be wrong. Someone would notice.
He glared at the gold band. “Are you Grinling, the ring that was forged for the All-Father by the Aelen Kofer?” The Trickster stole that ring and hid it in the belly of the king of the ice bears. The hero Gedanke challenged the king of the ice bears to a battle with the king bear’s liver at stake because a soothsayer told Gedanke that only a taste of the liver of the king of the ice bears would save the children of Amberscheldt from a deadly plague. Gedanke found Grinling when he went after the ice bear’s liver.
Grinling bore a curse because the All-Father failed to give the Aelen Kofer everything they demanded in payment. The ring always betrayed anyone who wore it. Including Gedanke himself when the All-Father sent the Choosers of the Slain to reclaim Grinling. Arlensul fell in love with Gedanke, bore him a son, and, thus, sealed all their dooms. “If you are Grinling, ring, I don’t want you near me.”
Grinling’s full tale was dark and cruel. It included rape, murder, incest, and a deadly squabble between the Old Gods and the even older gods who came before. Gods so grim they terrified the current Instrumentalities of the Night.
Character by character Else deciphered each word etched into the ring. Careful angle shifts betrayed additional characters etched in almost the same places as others already revealed. Then he discovered more in
scriptions on the inside. He recorded everything painstakingly. And sighed with relief after his fabulation of the Grinling myth.
None of the inscriptions were in the northern heathen stick characters.
He did not understand what he transcribed. The writing on the outside could be preclassical Brothen. The interior inscription was in a different language and alphabet, in characters so tiny Else could not imagine them having been etched by hand. Many were too worn to record accurately.
He wished he could escape to the Deve quarter. Gledius Stewpo would know somebody who could tell him what the ring was all about.
THE CHIARO BATHS RESEMBLED SOMETHING FROM THE FANTASIES OF wicked eastern potentates. Wine and females were plentiful—though the girls were not there for sport, apparently. Else did not see any of that. He did see wrinkled old Principatés being slithered over by litters of hairless, well-oiled youngsters.
A naked youth approached. “I’m Gleu, sir.” Gleu had a strong accent. “I’ll help with your clothing.”
“This is my first visit, Gleu. How does it work?”
“There aren’t many rules, sir. You go to the hot baths—or to the cold, if that’s your preference—and choose the girls you want to bathe you. Or the boys, if that’s your preference. You don’t touch. Unless you’re invited. If you do you’ll be fined. Second time, they’ll fine you again and bar you for two weeks. After the third time you’ll be banned forever. Your behavior can even bring you under the lash. So says the Holy Father.”
“So there was a time when other rules existed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Service in the baths was a form of social welfare for orphans and abandoned children. Attractive children, of course. They received food and shelter. Their service needed be no more demeaning than they desired. Clearly, though, if their standards were relaxed their tips would be larger.
“Them that save carefully can be well off when they leave.” Those who did not earn good tips or take care often graduated to service in the lowest class of brothel. “You will want girls, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Gleu took Else to a room where several score girls, from seven to eighteen, of varied race, waited to help the princes of the Church and their associates bathe and relax. Else hesitated.
Gleu whispered, “Would you rather have boys help you?”
“No.”
“Then pick two. Which two doesn’t matter.”
Else indulged. He indicated two older girls, neither a type he recognized. One was a tall, muscular blonde with large, sharply pointed breasts and eyes of ice a thousand years old. The second, also tall, was a flawless mahogany. She had breasts that reminded him of gourds. The blonde’s hair was long but braided. The second girl’s curly black hair was barely an inch in length. She seemed pleased to have been chosen. Each girl took an arm and led him to the heated main pool. They sat him down and let him do nothing but absorb the warmth. “Don’t talk. Close your eyes. Relax.”
The girls snuggled up, one to each side.
He let the warmth in, as they said. And as it filled up, his mind emptied of cares.
A girl rested her head on each of his shoulders. He drowsed.
In time, they led him from the main bath to a cleansing pool. They used soaps and scrubs on every inch of him. The cold blonde did not seem particularly interested in winning a large tip.
The dark girl chuckled. She pointed out his physical response. “More impressive than what these sad old men usually show us.” Thereafter, she paid it no special notice.
The erection had not yet subsided when the girls decided he was ready to leave the pool.
Almost immediately he found himself face-to-face with an unclad Osa Stile. Osa said, “Oh, my my,” and continued shepherding a bony old man toward a cleansing pool.
The dark girl laughed throatily. “You’ve made a conquest.”
Else did not respond. Why was Osa Stile here? How had he become a bath attendant? Did Johannes Blackboots have a Principaté on his payroll?
Of course he did. Several, probably.
The girls took him into a small, fragrant room. They toweled him dry. The blonde told him, “Lie down on the couch. Face down.”
She had an accent that was slight but definite. Firaldian was not her native tongue. The dark girl, though, might have been born in Brothe.
Else lay down on the leather couch. The girls began to massage him and rub him with oils.
His worries drifted away once more.
He was almost too loose to roll over when told to do so.
The girls chuckled over the continued proud glory of his manhood.
After more massaging and oiling, the girls slithered onto the couch beside him. Well oiled, their smooth skin moving on his felt better than the massage had. They slowed down gradually and snuggled up.
He dozed off.
PINKUS GHORT WAS WAITING IN ELSE’S QUARTERS WHEN HE RETURNED. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s good to be one of the wheels, eh?”
“What?”
“I’ve heard about those baths.”
“Doubtless exaggerations that turned a lot worse once they had an opportunity to slither around inside your head.”
“Sure.” Ghort charged that one word with a hundredweight of cynical disbelief. “What did you need?”
“Need?”
“You sent for me, brother. I didn’t just drop in.”
“Oh. Yes. Sure. I need an adjutant. For the city regiment. You want the job?”
After a stunned silence, Ghort erupted. “Shit, yeah! Aaron’s fuzzy balls, Pipe! Why’d you even ask? Hey! Wait a minute. What’s the fucking catch?”
“The catch is, you have to leave Principaté Doneto so you can take on more work than you’ve ever done in your whole damned life.”
“Shit. I knew it. Work. Do I get to hang out in the baths?”
“No.”
“Worse and worse. Now you’re going to ask me to work for free, too, for the experience.”
“I’m going to feed you. What more could you want?”
“Give me a minute, Pipe. I’ll think of something. Hell. Here’s an idea. How about a whole fucking bunch more money than I’m getting from Principaté Doneto? Where, I might point out, I’m not having to do much of anything that even vaguely resembles work? For damned good pay.”
“Darn. I figured on keeping your salary for myself.”
“So bring me up to date. What’re we doing? What do we still have to do?”
“Everything. I’m just getting started. Hacking my way through the politics. The people underwriting the city regiment behave like they’re five years old. You’re only the second man I’ve hired myself. They’re making me take on dozens of complete idiots without ever consulting me. These Brothens don’t understand what you’re talking about if you mention merit or competence. A rock can be a general if it knows the right people. So I’m trying to sneak a few men that are predictable and competent under pressure.”
“I was second choice, huh? Who did you need more than me?”
“A nineteen-year-old miracle-working Deve accountant who knows how to get the most out of the money I’m given. He also finds thieves who try to rake off some of it for themselves.”
“He good?”
“So good he can screw you out of half your pay while you think you’re getting rich.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I have a meeting coming up. I want you there.”
“Going to get my feet wet right away?”
“No. I want the Castella crowd and the tenants of this lunatic asylum to get used to you being around.”
“Where do I bunk?”
“Right where you’re bunking now. It’s not that long a walk. Let Principaté Doneto go right on thinking you’re loyal to him. And since you might be, we’ll let him go on picking up your room and board.”
“Eis’s hairy ass, you’re cheap.”
“That’s how I plan to build myself an effici
ent little army.”
“By squeezing every ducat?”
“Until the Patriarch on it squeaks.”
ELSE REGRETTED BRINGING PINKUS GHORT TEN MINUTES AFTER ENTERING the planning room in the Castella. Ghort took one look at the great, inverted map of Calzir and its environs and blurted, “Shit, Pipe! Look at that. We got them assholes by the nuts.”
Silence fell. Twenty pairs of eyes concentrated on Pinkus Ghort. One pair belonged to Ferris Renfrow.
The snake had its head out of the egg. Else could see no way to cover up what ought to have been obvious to anyone not trapped inside centuries of traditional strategy, anyway.
“Uhm?” Did Ghort see it?
“Did that fleet of King Peter’s sail yet? Did the troops from the Connec start marching yet?”
Ghort saw it.
“I don’t think so. Why?” He had to ask.
“Yes,” Ferris Renfrow said, over Else’s left shoulder. “Clue us in, Captain Ghort.”
Members of the Collegium and a couple of Hansel’s top planners all clumped together, drawn by Ghort’s enthusiasm.
“It looks like your plan is just to punch through the mountains and go after the castles and cities. Same as if you were going after any other Firaldian principality. Same as the last four or five times somebody tried.”
An imperial staffer pointed out, “Cities and castles are where the wealth and nobility are.”
“Sure. But not the food, dear heart. Not the food. Tell him, Pipe.”
The son of a dog. “I think I see. Mainland Calzir is heavily dependent on bread. But wheat doesn’t grow well there. It does flourish over here, on Shippen. Shippen’s fecundity was one reason the ancient Brothens occupied the island.”
“Exactly!” Ghort enthused. “Wheat and silver mines.”
“Explain more clearly, please,” one of the Imperials said.
“Eighty percent of the people live on the mainland. They raise wine grapes, olives, and sheep. Most of the grain is grown on the island. Across the Strait of Rhype. Now, we have a sizable Direcian fleet up here, going to head this way. It can cut off help from the western Pramans. The fleet could pick up the Connecten contingent as it follows the coast. Those troops could land on Shippen. They could stop any grain from getting to the mainland. Which means no bread on the mainland. Where they have lots of extra soldiers, sailors, and animals from Lucidia and Dreanger to feed.”
