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

by Glen Cook

  Would the Calziran Pramans tolerate the abuse of their minorities?

  Probably.

  Grade Drocker invited himself in. “That’s interesting. But is it germane? Let’s focus on the problem at hand. Can we get men inside to seize the gates or murder the Praman leadership?”

  Else told Ghort, “Make up a team of our Deves and some refugees to track the situation.” He told the others, “Something bigger may be going on. Where do we get out of the waste-water system?”

  The Deves of al-Khazen had provided excellent maps, some so detailed they included the number of steps up to the door of an important building.

  “Not sure,” Ghort said.

  Drocker asked Bronte Doneto and Divino Bruglioni, “Are you really sure the Pramans don’t know about this? I’d use it as a trap.”

  Drocker was so weak now that he had to be carried. But he was able to speak almost normally. Else did not expect him to last till spring. And had mixed feelings about that. Because Drocker had become his patron. And Drocker might get him next to Honario Benedocto himself.

  THE MOTIVE BEHIND THE ROUNDUP AND SUPPRESSION OF MINORITIES MADE itself evident immediately. Most were driven out, intended to become a burden on the besiegers. Criminals, prostitutes, old people unrelated to anyone important—anyone who could not materially contribute to the city’s defense—were ejected along with the minorities.

  Before the next day’s end the Dreangereans and Lucidians began ejecting fight-worthy Pramans they did not trust, too.

  Else had patrols round up a representative sample of disgruntled ejectees and offered them the opportunity to get even.

  Grade Drocker cautioned, “Be careful, Hecht. I’ve seen this in the Holy Lands. Some of these refugees will be enemy agents.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “NO. I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN MY PROMISE,” ELSE TOLD ROGOZ SAYAG. They were walking in darkness, between the observation house and the regimental camp.

  “I ask only because Salny tells me the Don is fading.”

  “The thing weighs on my mind. A commitment is a commitment.”

  “But.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I understand. You’ve become one of the key men in the crusade.”

  “I don’t know. I was born in the wrong place and time. No doubt if I was amoral enough to murder my father and sell my sisters into prostitution.” One of the heroes of Brothen antiquity had done just that.

  Rogoz chuckled wickedly. “Brothens aren’t nastier than other people. You just hear about the ones who do the nastiest shit.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’m just asking. Like I said, the Don is failing.”

  “Which one of the Bruglioni do you suppose the Don admires the most?”

  “The Principaté. Divino was almost as close to Draco as Freido was.”

  “That makes sense. But we are in a war here.” Meaning that a senior member of the Collegium was not an asset to be wasted while Brothe’s enemies remained standing.

  “I understand. I’m just seeing if you remember my father and the Don.”

  “You have no worries. I won’t forget their generosity.”

  A sentry challenged them. Else gave the countersign.

  “Hey! Pipe? Is that you, you old pudthumper?”

  “Bo Biogna. Bo, this is Captain Sayag of House Arniena. Bo went into the Connec with us when Captain Ghort and I were trudging around behind Grade Drocker. Bo is a good man. I hear he’s even shown flashes of having what it takes to be a good soldier.”

  Bo had grown since last Else had seen him. “Thank you, Pipe. Uh, Colonel.”

  Before Else could get inside the little wine-pressing building Polo had turned into comfortable quarters, Bronte Doneto and several Collegium allies swooped down.

  “Principaté,” Else said, “however much I owe you, and however important you are to the faith, I can’t help right now. I’m exhausted. I need sleep. Now.”

  Doneto said, “I’m sorry. But there may be an important new angle. We’ve only begun to see it this past hour. There may be something deeper than the old war between faiths at work.”

  Else refrained from informing the Principaté that he was a major repository for camel dung. “You need to be more specific.”

  “Bluntly, Hecht, to the east of us somewhere, in or around the Emperor’s camp, there’s an interested power that could be a fully fledged Instrumentality of the Night.”

  “You have the advantage of me, Principaté. I don’t understand.”

  “Recall the thing in the Ownvidian Knot. The one we survived because you thought fast enough to wake me up.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a power out there, perhaps following the Emperor, that makes that bogon look as dangerous as a pet weasel.”

  Else stared at Doneto, wondering if the man’s sanity had become suspect.

  Doneto said, “Times like this strain the faith of God’s most devout Children, Colonel. This thing out there—Primitive peoples might consider it a lesser god.”

  Else nodded and shrugged and twitched. “And you’re telling me about this because?”

  “Because, like it or not, we’ll have to deal with it. You and me. If it has an interest in this struggle.”

  Else indulged in several seconds of deeply felt wishing that the non-sense would go away. “Say you’re right. Why is this awful godling here? If it isn’t Praman or Chaldarean, why does it care?”

  “You’d have to take that up with it. It’s one more symptom of the agitation among the Instrumentalities of the Night.”

  “Maybe I should be glad I’m not sensitive to that.”

  “Most people drift through life indifferent to the Night until the Night reaches out and smacks them.”

  “Like that thing in the Ownvidian Knot.”

  “Like that. I still don’t know what that was about. I have no enemies who’d go to that much trouble. Far easier to have me murdered in the Emperor’s prison.”

  “Maybe you offended the Adversary Himself.”

  “Hardly. There was a human agency behind that bogon.”

  “What’s that noise?” He knew what it was, though. The racket raised by men unexpectedly attacked.

  Doneto went pale. “That can’t be . . . We’d know ahead of time if they sent troops out.”

  THE PRAMAN SORCERERS WERE ATTACKING THE BROTHERHOOD. WHICH suggested lapses in their intelligence in both senses of that word. The Brotherhood contingent was no major threat to al-Khazen.

  The uproar ended before Else reached the scene. Something like the monster from Esther’s Wood had been driven off by the Principatés. Three Brothers fell to the thing’s fury. None died. Plainly not what those who sent it intended.

  Else spotted several key Devedians watching. Was it coincidence that the first blow fell on those who had done the Deves so much hurt? They controlled what both sides knew. Or thought they knew.

  The foe tried again, launching point attacks meant to spread terror.

  Else asked Doneto, “Is this the thing you warned me about?”

  “No. It’s a lesser bogon. Entirely foreign.”

  “Foreign?”

  “The overseas Pramans must have brought it. There’s nothing like it in Calzir anymore.”

  “So. Is it the point? Or a diversion?”

  “Diversion?”

  “What else is going on while we’re watching the loud show?” That would be traditional Sha-lug strategy. A fireworks display here while the critical attack went in elsewhere.

  “Good thinking, Hecht. I’ll look into it. Meanwhile, you should see to your troops.”

  The city regiment needed no seeing to. The men were nervous but disciplined. Sitting at the center of the sprawl of Patriarchal forces, the regiment enjoyed a moat of human flesh. The probes never came close.

  Nevertheless, fear remained an abiding presence through the night.

  GRADE DROCKER OPINED, “LAST NIGHT WAS A SETBACK FOR THE PRAmans.�
�� The Patriarchal commanders had lost the habit of calling their enemies Calzirans. The Calzirans were no longer in charge. “The Night bent to our will instead of theirs.”

  Else learned that small, cruel things had been sent to still the hearts of Patriarchal commanders. Those deadly clots of shadow had been exterminated. The Principatés had been waiting. Especially clever men like Bronte Doneto turned some back on al-Khazen’s native Pramans.

  The soldier’s life consisted mainly of waiting, or of marching somewhere in order to wait. Siege work meant concentrated waiting. Else found himself growing impatient. But never so impatient that he lost sight of the fact that impatience was the mother of stupid decisions.

  Ghort turned up. “You get the casualty report for last night, Pipe?”

  “Not yet. I didn’t think we had any. Did we?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve seen a few men who say they were but it looked more like they had too much liberated wine and got hurt running around in a panic. Then there’s that guy who runs the Arniena company. Sayag. He’s your pal, isn’t he?”

  “Not really. We worked together. I saw him last night. What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. He isn’t, either. He thinks something tried to get him. Yet that doesn’t seem likely.”

  No, it did not. Unless Divino Bruglioni had found out that the Arniena had it in for the Bruglioni. “I don’t know. It’s a world full of cold miseries, Pinkus.”

  “And getting colder fast. Everywhere. You don’t want to go back home. That end of the world will be under the ice in our lifetimes.”

  “The whole world will be under the ice, Pinkus. In our lifetimes. If half the rumors are true.”

  From the observation house, later, Else stared across the snowscape at the walls and roofs and towers of al-Khazen. They seemed darker and more dangerous this morning. Those were his people. But he could summon no sympathy. He was sure there was no sympathy for Else Tage stashed behind those walls, either.

  Would the whole world go under the ice? Or would the Wells of Ihrian start to flow more strongly, as might have happened in the past?

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT BEGAN THE SAME. THE NIGHT-BORN ATTACKS FROMal-Khazen sputtered sooner, however. Bronte Doneto and his cohorts turned the attack, with more vigor.

  Only al-Seyhan and Starkden were active. Did they think the third sorcerer was still a secret?

  The third night they turned to the Imperial forces.

  Ghort caught Else when they were free of Brotherhood watchers, Principatés, Polo, Deves, and the other plagues upon their lives. “You going crazy with this latest shit, Pipe? I am. These assholes . . . You think the great old-time conquerors had to put up with the horseshit we get every day?”

  “What makes stories from the old days seem so great is that they leave out the pettiness, greed, mean spiritedness, backbiting and infighting.”

  “Yeah, well. Screw it. You’re probably right. People are gonna be people. Which means they’re mainly gonna be assholes. I wasn’t really wanting to talk about that shit, anyway.”

  “But you do have something on your mind.”

  “Oh, yeah. There’s always something going on in there. But there’s a chance it might not be no more important than what goes on in the heads of all those morons who listen to a story but only hear what they want to hear.”

  “It’s cold out here, Pinkus.”

  “I do have a point. In the sense that I want you to tell me what you’re up to. I don’t want to get my ass shredded because I don’t know the plan.”

  Else swung an arm across Ghort’s shoulder. “Have you been testing the local spoiled fruit juice?”

  “That’s one thing these Unbelievers do right, Pipe. They ain’t ’sposed to drink nothing that might maybe put them in a good mood. Their god must be one sour son of a bitch. But still they manage to make some fine wine.”

  “You have been sampling.”

  “Which don’t mean shit. What does is, what I want to know is, what’re we gonna do?”

  “What are you babbling about, Pinkus?”

  “You don’t even realize, do you?”

  “You’re right. I’m lost.”

  Ghort did some verbal exercises to get his tongue under control. “You don’t realize that you’re the number-one guy, here, now. Top dog, after Grade Drocker. Who plain ain’t gonna last much longer.”

  “You haven’t cleared the fog much.”

  “All right. Look. Here it is. We got what, eleven, twelve thousand men in the Patriarch’s army?”

  Else grunted. “Twelve thousand, two hundred. And some. Maybe eight thousand able to fight.” There was a lot of sickness. But that was worse in the city. “And your point?”

  “Haven’t you noticed in the big meetings how even assholes like Count Juditch va Geiso shut up when you talk?”

  He had not. He had seen that even the Principatés and most senior nobles deferred to Grade Drocker. “No.”

  “Sainted Eis’s Holy Hernia, Pipe! For a guy who’s so clever about shit in the field, you’re dumb when it comes to where you fit in the camp. Those guys have watched you on the job, Pipe. Some ain’t happy but they’ve seen you run the regiment. They’ve seen you fight it. They know none of their ruling-class types could do half the job. And none of them want any of the others telling them what to do.”

  Else had seen that. Plenty. “I don’t believe you but I see what you’re saying.”

  “You don’t got to believe. But we’ve done good. Them what don’t want to be cold and hungry and maybe dead on account of some idiot who knows jack shit about the war business. . . .”

  Else shook his head.

  Ghort waved that off. “A lot of people think you’re the man who can keep everybody warm and fed and breathing if Drocker kicks the bucket.”

  “Then this discussion is moot. That nasty old man isn’t going away anytime soon.” Arguing against his own convictions.

  “Play a game of what if with me, Pipe. What next, if you was in charge?”

  Else scowled. Was Ghort stupid enough to get involved in a conspiracy? “You’re serious? Of course you are. You don’t have the imagination not to be. Or so you’d like us to think. If I was in charge, what would I do? Exactly what we’ve been doing, Pinkus. Digging in, drawing the circle tighter, and not doing anything to get any of us killed stupidly. Maximum results for the least bloodshed. Our side and theirs. So what do you really want, Pinkus?”

  “I ain’t blowing smoke, Pipe. I’m straight on. I think you’re the compromise guy. And I don’t agree about Drocker being in good shape.”

  “Now you’ve heard it, Pinkus. Tell Doneto I’d go right on doing it Drocker’s way. Letting time work. Like making wine. Though I might do a little more than he has to talk the Pramans into surrendering.”

  “You could shit a shitter, all right, Pipe. You ain’t really told me shit that’s worth snot.”

  “Pinkus, I don’t know what more you want to hear.”

  Ghort growled and pretended to yank out his hair. “How come you can’t just give me a straight answer to a straight question?”

  “I did.”

  “I bet the reason you left Duarnenia was, they ran you off on account of you’ve got a stick up your ass.”

  “I don’t understand what you want.”

  Ghort demonstrated his characteristic flexibility by shrugging, saying, “Guess I lose. I thought I could get you to give me something. Hey. Guess who—or what—turned up? That nasty little sword swallower that used to polish Bishop Serifs’s knob.”

  Startled, Else blurted, “Osa Stile? The catamite?”

  “I thought his name was Armand.”

  “You’re right. Stile. Where did I get that? He’s here? How did that happen?”

  “He’s hooked up with one of them Collegium characters. One of the really quiet, spooky, shadowy old ones.” Meaning one of the more powerful Principatés when it came to working the Instrumentalities of the Night. One of those men for whom the Night was a pla
ce of romance and adventure, not a realm of terror. Which suited Osa’s spy role perfectly.

  The Collegium was the stoutest bulwark that Sublime could place between himself and the ambitions of Johannes Blackboots. But his party held only that narrowest of edges there. Ferris Renfrow would want to keep a close eye on the Collegium.

  “Watch him, Pinkus. There’s more to that boy than meets the eye.”

  “Yeah. Any chance we’ll do anything but sit here?”

  Back to that. “Not if I can help it. If you’re feeling suicidal, though, I’ll give you a note introducing you to Starkden and Masant al-Seyhan.”

  “Bored is the word. Not suicidal.”

  “Bored? You don’t have enough work to keep you busy?”

  “I’ve got plenty. Don’t go getting no silly-ass ideas about piling on. But I am a man of action.”

  “Pinkus, I’ve never seen you make the least effort to put yourself in harm’s way.”

  “Yeah. But a guy does get antsy when all he does is sit.”

  “Sitting pays exactly the same as getting pieces chopped off.”

  “When you put it that way . . .”

  “Bottom line, Pinkus. Final sums. Getting out of all this alive. Staggering under the weight of all the treasure. That’s what I want.”

  “In that order, old buddy. Alive first, then rich.”

  “And after we’re done here?”

  “I go back to Brothe and be Doneto’s number-one guy. You go be the Collegium’s best boy. Maybe in charge of some permanent Patriarchal regiment. We’re in, Pipe. Long as we don’t fuck up.”

  “That’s true. That is true.” He had Drocker as his mentor and champion.

  “You sigh, Pipe.”

  “I sigh. Because we’re good soldiers. And nobody will remember that.”

  THE WEATHER SOFTENED. THE PATRIARCHAL TROOPS LEFT THEIR SHELTERS to resume work on raising a palisade just outside the reach of Praman artillery. Else wanted the circumvallation extended in both directions. King Peter appeared disinclined to come within sight of al-Khazen on his end.

  Grade Drocker preferred to ignore the Direcian-Connecten army. Those people had done their part. And then they had snapped up way more than their share of the spoils. “If I had my way, we’d make the Connectens storm al-Khazen so they get used up.”